


Loving Him Was Red

by pepsicola



Series: Passionate As Sin [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Other ships unmentioned, Stepbrother AU, Title is a lyric from "Red" by Taylor Swift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-10-29 09:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 66,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepsicola/pseuds/pepsicola
Summary: Every love story has a beginning.





	1. Eric Cartman

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for all the song references.

**Fifth grade.**

“You’ve been dating Clyde fucking _Donovan’s_ dad? Have you gone nuts? Do I mean _nothing_ to you?” I explode. My hands are shaking with anger. I glare at my stupid mom, staring at me with wide eyes. I can’t believe it. I just can’t fucking believe it. Out of all the stupid assholes my mom can date, she chooses Clyde’s dad. Fan-fucking-tastic.

We were having such a nice Thursday night dinner too. I was eating my KFC happily and watching YouTube on my phone. And then my dumb mom told me she had news. Thinking it was something for me, I had paused my video and pulled off my headphones and listened like a good son.

She had smiled across the table at me, looking oh-so happy. Lately, she _had_ been more joyful, and she was often leaving me home alone to “go out.” I had assumed she was just being a thot like she used to, but then again, she suddenly got a real job and stopped standing at street corners in the dead of night. Then she said, “Poopsikins, I’m sure you know of Clyde Donovan, right?”

I had raised my eyebrow. “Yeah…” I said slowly. I like Clyde. Clyde was cool. He understood me.

Mom had taken a deep breath in, still beaming from ear to fucking ear. “Well,” she said, blushing at the table, “Clyde’s father, Roger, and I have been dating for three months now.”

Now we’re back to where we started, and I’m still fuming. Mom stares at me shocked. “E-Eric, I thought you’d be happy—”

“Happy?” I exclaim, throwing up my hands. “ _Happy?_ You’re dating the dad of one of my friends. Well, he’s not my friend anymore, but I can’t believe this. Out of all the dudes—” I scoff, shaking my head. “Leave me the fuck alone,” I mutter.

I grab my phone and headphones before I march up to my room, where I slam the door shut and lock it behind me. I lay on my bed, nails digging into my palms. God, this sucks. Mom’s dated a lot of guys in the past, but never before has she decided to date the dad of one of my _friends._ That’s gross. And what was worse, she’s dating Clyde’s dad. It’s a shame, really. Clyde is one of the few people I genuinely like. Not anymore, obviously.

“Shit,” I hiss, taking my alarm clock and hurling it at the wall. Mr. Kitty on my pillow blinks awake.

The guys Mom dated before were sleazy dickheads. They didn’t have _kids_ and live in South Park. They didn’t live a block away. But Roger, Clyde’s dad, has Clyde. Who’s my age. In my grade. The person who I thought was my friend. I wonder if Clyde’s dad told him yet, or if he would tell him at all. I wonder how he reacted.

Probably crying.

As he should be. I’ll make him miserable for this, and I’ll make his dad miserable too. I scoop Mr. Kitty into my lap and stroke her gray fur. After all, Mom’s ex boyfriends never last because I always drive them away. How hard can it be to drive away another one of my mom’s stupid boyfriends?

 

The next morning at school, I shoot Clyde a glare as I get on the bus. He shrinks into himself, averting his eyes to stare out the window. What a fucking traitor. I sit in a vacant seat at the front, near the rest of my friends. Kenny leans over from his seat next to Butters and says through his hood, “Is it true? Is your mom dating Clyde’s dad?”

I roll my eyes. “Not for long,” I answer.

Kyle frowns at me. I hate him so much. “Don’t you want your mom to be happy, dude?” he asks.

“Yes,” I snap. “Just not with Clyde’s dad.”

“Poor Clyde, dude. Damn,” Stan mutters from beside him.

I scoff. I can’t believe them. Here I am, clearly miserable that Mom’s dating Roger Donovan, and they’re pitying _Clyde_? What kind of bullshit is that? Some friends they are.

“Aw, Eric. Everything’ll be okay,” Butters says, leaning past Kenny. He has that bright smile on his face. The one that makes his scar on his left eye crinkle. What a douchebag.

“Shut up, Butters,” I grumble.

During class, all I can do is glare at Clyde. His shoulders are still up to his ears, his face still red. During recess, Kyle and Stan and Kenny abandon me to go over to crying Clyde, patting his back and telling him it will be okay. I even hear Kyle tell him, “If Cartman tries anything on you, I’ll kick his ass.” All of his friends are there comforting him. Him! Like the same isn’t happening to me!

Butters is the only one who sits next to me on the merry-go-round on the playground. He’s holding his chin in his hands, elbows on his knees. He watches our friends with Clyde too.

“How’re you feelin' about the news?” Butters asks. He turns his head to me.

I furrow my eyebrows at him. He just continues to stare at me with his pale blue eyes.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he says. “When have I ever?”

“I can count a few times,” I mutter. But Butters is doing exactly what I want, asking me how the whole situation is affecting _me_ , and I’m not about to lose that. “It sucks. I’m pissed at my mom and Clyde and his dad. Why, out of all people, did it have to be them?”

Butters pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. Maybe they’ll break up,” he says.

“Oh they will. I’ll make sure of it.” I look at him. “Wanna help me?”

Butters’ eyes turn to the grass, knocking his knuckles together. “W-well, Eric. Y’know I’d help you with anything, b-but I draw the line at breakin’ folks up,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “But you don’t draw the line at helping me sell vapes to kindergarteners? And then vaping with me in the bathroom?”

Butters lifts his head. “It was only two puffs between us. And at least we didn’t get addicted. But sorry, Eric. It just ain’t right—messin’ with love.”

I sigh. Figures. Butters is a sucker for love. I used to get it. Seeing Token and Nichole and Tweek and Craig together is cute, and I’m happy they’re happy, but love seems stupid now. Stupid and useless.


	2. Eric Cartman

**Fifth grade.**

It’s been a month since Mom told me she’s dating Clyde’s dad. A miserable month. Now that I know, Mom doesn’t hide going out. She tells me she’s going out with Roger, and she’ll be back soon. It makes me bitter and disgusted.

Tuesdays aren’t as bad as Mondays, and yet, school is still on this day, so it sucks just as hard. At lunch, it used to be that my friends and Craig and Those Guys all sit at one table, but since there’s been the news that my mom and Clyde’s dad are dating, Craig’s friends sit at their own table and have been since the news.

I prod my pizza with my fork. I’m not hungry, which is not me at all. Kyle and Stan and Kenny talk like nothing’s wrong. Butters across from me is staring at me with a tilted head. “What’s wrong, Eric?” he asks.

I glance at Clyde at his table, moping into his chocolate milk. Jimmy is talking at him, but he’s not responding. The month we found out our parents are dating, he’s been looking on the verge of tears every day.

I take a bite of my pizza, and around my mouthful I say, “I’m never gonna fall in love.”

Kyle says, “Well yeah. Because you talk too much.”

Kenny says, “Why not?”

Stan pretty much frowns.

Butters says, “Don’t say that, Eric!”

“Why not?” I say. “Love isn’t for me. It makes people do stupid things. It makes people like Stan follow Wendy around like a puppy. It makes Kenny chase after girls with his tongue out. It makes Butters blush and stutter. It makes my mom do things like date Clyde’s dad. Love makes people weak and dependent. I don’t want that.”

Kyle snaps his mouth shut, looking ashamed for whatever reason. Butters looks sad, and Kenny and Stan look pitiful and offended at the same time. They all stare at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Dude… That’s really sad,” Kyle says.

“Why? How?” I say.

Butters says, “Do you need a hug, Eric?”

My lip curls at him in disgust. “No. Don’t you dare come near me, or I’ll rip your fingers off.”

“That’s unnecessary, Cartman. He’s just being nice,” Kenny says.

I roll my eyes. “He’s not offended.” I look at Butters. “Are you?” He shakes his head. I turn back to Kenny. “See? He knows it’s an empty threat.” I continue with my pizza, even if my friends keep staring at me with furrowed eyebrows.

I get home from school and am met with horrible news. More horrible than hearing Mom’s dating Roger Donovan. I dump my backpack on the floor next to the couch. I march into the kitchen, prepared to raid the fridge. Mom’s sitting at the table, on her phone, but then she looks up at me.

“Hello, sweetie. How was school?” she asks.

“Shitty, as usual,” I mumble as I scan the contents of the fridge. Nothing there. Maybe I still have some Cheesy Poofs somewhere.

I search the cupboards as Mom clears her throat and says, “Um, poopsikins. Don’t try to eat too much, because at six, Roger and Clyde are coming over for dinner.”

I whirl around, gaping at her. “What?” I say.

Mom doesn’t repeat herself, instead saying, “So I want you to start your homework now—”

“Clyde and his dad are coming over here _today?_  At _six_?” I say.

“Yes, and I want you to be on your best behavior. None of your usual funny business, all right? And please be nice to Clyde. I really think Roger is the one.”

Half of me wants to throw up. The other half, the more obedient half that’s been poking through in the past five months (I know why now) tells me that I should be happy for my mom. That maybe I should try to be nice. My mom’s been so happy these past few months, and it’s nice to see her in such a good mood. And maybe Roger really is the one…

I scoff at my thoughts, smacking my palm to my forehead. What am I thinking? There is no way Roger Donovan is “the one,” and there is no way I’m even potentially letting Clyde become my stepbrother.

I don’t bother saying anything back. Instead, I spin on my heel, back to the living room. I pick up my backpack and leave my house.

I walk across the lawn, to the house next door. I fish out a key from my backpack and use it to open the door. I stopped knocking on Butters’ door in fourth grade when his parents would answer and look at me with this suspicious expression on their faces. So last year, I stole Butters’ key. He got grounded for two weeks, but it saves me from his parents’ uncomfortable stares.

Butters’ parents are at work, so the lower part of the house is empty. Butters himself is probably in his room, being a good obedient son. There are a bunch of pictures of him on the walls and in frames on the shelves and side tables. I gag as I go up the stairs. His parents really make it seem like they’re trying to convince whoever visits their house that _yes, we_ totally _love our son._

I swing open the door to Butters’ bedroom. He’s at his desk, doing homework. What a goody two shoes. He turns in his chair as I lay down on his bed.

“Heya, Eric,” he says.

I don’t say hi back. “My mom invited Clyde and his fucking dad over for dinner tonight,” I say. “She wants me to dress all nice and be on my best behavior. She told me Clyde’s dad was ‘the one.’ Can you believe that?”

“Oh. That sucks,” he mumbles, eyes on his yellow Hello Kitty socks.

“Yeah. It does. And I don’t think I’m going to get out of it because my mom will probably call around to ask where I am.”

Butters doesn’t reply. I prop myself up to look at him. He’s knocking his knuckles together. He must feel my gaze or something because he meets my eyes and shrugs. “W—Eric, if you don’t mind me askin’, but… why do you always want your mom to be without a boyfriend?”

I open my mouth to tell him why, but I fall short. I sit up, pressing my knuckles to my mouth. Why _do_ I hate all my mom’s boyfriends? I mean, not all of them have pissed me off. Some were okay, but there was still something about them that I despised. I remember going over to Clyde’s house last year. His dad wasn’t that bad. His dad was actually cool. But suddenly, he’s dating my mom and I hate him _and_ Clyde, who I didn’t hate before.

I think back to the times Mom’s been out with her boyfriends. She would leave me at around seven at night. She’d kiss my head, and tell me dinner was in the fridge, and I’d better be in bed by the time she gets home. I’d be left alone in the house, eating dinner by myself. It was always fun at first. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted. But then the fun would die out.

I’d eventually go to bed, but I wouldn’t fall asleep. Instead, I’d stare out the window and wonder when Mom was coming home. I woke up the next morning and breakfast would be ready. But there have been a few times where I’d wake up, and she wouldn’t be home at all. I’d debate ditching school, but I’d always end up on the bus. When I got home from school, she was back and bright like nothing had happened.

Or I’d go up to her room after school and want her to take me somewhere, like KFC or Casa Bonita. She’d be sitting at her vanity, putting on makeup wearing a dress with her hair done. Her responses were always _I’m too busy, sweetie_. _Not now, poopsikins. Maybe another time, hon._

And then she’d leave.

I blink out of the memories, realizing the answer as it bubbles up to my brain. “Holy shit,” I breathe. I meet Butters’ eyes. “I hate all her boyfriends because I want to be the center of her attention at all times. Her having someone else in her life takes away from that.”

Butters’ expression tells me he already knew this, but he still says, “All I can tell you, Eric, is to try _this once_ and cooperate with you mom. Go to dinner and behave nicely. Don’t try to kill Clyde or his dad. See what happens. See how your mom reacts. If she seems so deeply in love, then maybe she’s right when she says Clyde’s dad is the one. I know you don’t want him—or anyone—to be, but your mom’s happiness can’t just come from solely you.”

I frown, about to tell him that Mom’s happiness _can_ come from just me and only me, but I know deep down it can’t. She’s been so happy recently, and it’s nice because she makes me any breakfast or dinner I ask for. She lets me play video games past my cut off time. She lets me stay up late and watch movies. Maybe if I let this thing go on for a little longer, I can get more out of it. Then, when I really can’t take it anymore, I’ll break them up.

I sigh. “Fine.” I unzip my backpack. “Can I copy your homework?” I ask Butters.

“I can _help_ you with it,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. As long as I finish it.”

Butters leaves his chair and sits next to me.

At five-fifty, Mom calls the Stotch phone. Butters’ dad yells up the stairs, “Butters, can you tell Eric that his mom wants him home?”

Butters looks at me. I groan and roll off his bed, onto the floor. He hands me my backpack with all my stuff in it. I take it from him, getting to my feet.

“Good luck, Eric,” he says.

“Thanks,” I grumble as I leave his room.

At home, Mom asks, “Did you finish your homework—”

“God, yes!” I snap. I march up to my room and lock the door behind me. I throw off my hat and jacket putting on the first button down shirt I see in my closet. I keep my brown jeans on. Then I go into the bathroom and use water to flatten my hat hair.

I go downstairs to Mom setting the table. “Happy?” I say.

She smiles and kisses my forehead. “Thank you, sweetie. Help me set the table.” She hands me four plates and a handful of utensils.

Lately, her old training with Cesar Millan has been kicking in, not giving me the option to say no, but making demands. I reluctantly set the plates and utensils. Mom brings the food and puts it in the center of the table. Of course, the food is healthy, with rice and vegetables and meat. When she doesn’t ask me what I want to eat, she whips up some healthy shit that I eat anyway because I’m hungry.

There’s a knock on the door. A flash of excitement and worry crosses Mom’s face. She unties her apron and says to me, “Get the door please, hon.”

Grumbling to myself, I cross the living room. I open the door and see Roger Donovan in a semiformal shirt and his glasses standing there, with Clyde hiding behind him. His face is blotchy and red, his eyes puffy, like he was crying on the way here. What a baby.

“Hello, Eric. I’m Roger,” Roger says with a smile. He extends a hand for me to shake.

I see Clyde begin to shake his head in warning at his dad, but I give Roger a pointed smile and take his hand. “Come in. Dinner’s in the kitchen.”

Roger comes in, and Clyde sticks close to his side. I glare at him when he passes. I slam the door shut after them.

In the kitchen, Mom greets Roger with a bright smile I’ve never seen her wear. She kisses both his cheeks. “Have a seat. Everything is ready.”

I sit in my chair opposite Roger Donovan.

She sees Clyde and says, “I’m Liane, Eric’s mom.”

“I know,” Clyde mumbles.

Mom chucks his chin and Clyde sits in the chair next to his dad, scooting as close as possible. Clyde’s been to my house before, but he’s never looked this on edge. He deserves it.

He avoids my glare as he puts food on his plate. I think of all the things I could do to him. I could dig my heel into his toes under the table. I could flick food at him. But something holds me back from torturing Clyde across from me.

So instead, I pile my plate high with the food on the table. Maybe if I eat like a pig, Roger Donovan will be so disgusted that he’ll never come back for another dinner. Ever. I may not be able to harm them directly, but I can do subtle things to show my defiance.

Mom and Roger chat about things pleasantly like their sons aren’t miserable. Clyde keeps glancing down at his phone in his lap between bites. He’s probably texting his friends to rescue him. They’re probably replying with how worried they are for him, but maybe only Tweek would say that. The rest are probably telling him to stay calm and avoid me at all costs. Because I’m always the bad guy.

I eat as messily as I can, which isn’t a hard goal to accomplish. Roger doesn’t look affected at all, but maybe it was a stupid idea since he lives with his son, who’s my age. Mom is the one who becomes bothered, picking up my napkin and wiping my mouth. I push her off, feeling my face heat up.

I finish eating, and I realize Clyde has too, and he’s keeping his head down, eyes on his phone. Mom says to the two of us, “Boys, you can go into the living room if you’re finished. Play nicely.”

I hop out of my chair and go into the living room. I can hear Clyde following me far behind. “She can be so condescending sometimes,” I say to him as I sit on the couch and turn on the TV.

Clyde stands frozen, halfway between the kitchen and the couch. He stares at me with wide eyes.

“What?” I say.

“You’re… not mad?” he asks.

I wave a dismissive hand at him. “No, I am. But I’ve been thinking.”

Clyde pales.

“Don’t worry, I won’t try to kill you or your dad yet. But maybe we can try to”—I drop my voice to a whisper—“break them up.”

Clyde visibly relaxes. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I’m good with that.” He comes a little bit closer and sits on the floor. “You know, you’re not the only one mad at their relationship. I never thought my dad would move on so quickly. It feels disrespectful towards Mom.”

I hum, staring at the TV. “Yeah. And I don’t feel like sharing. This isn’t communism.”

Clyde snorts, picking at the carpet, and I see that he has a small smile on his face. I wonder if he still thinks I’m his friend. Because if he does, well, he has a big surprise coming.

“I’m surprised you didn’t try anything,” he mumbles.

“Well, my mom’s elation has its perks. I might as well milk it.”

Clyde nods. “That’s true. My dad bought me this new video game last weekend. It’s cool, but I feel like he’s just trying to buy me shit into accepting his relationship with your mom.”

My face falls. I never thought of it that way. Great, now I’m not going to be able to _stop_ thinking about it that way. “Doesn’t matter. As long as we break them up in at least three months,” I say. “Deal?”

Clyde’s mouth twists to the side. “How about you don’t try anything on me or my dad, like trying to kill us or something, and then deal.”

“Okay. I won’t try anything on you or your dad unless they break up. Deal?”

“No, you can’t try anything _ever._  Deal?”

“Ugh. Fine. Deal.”

We shake on it, our left hands in our laps so we can see if one of us were to cross our fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My, my love had been frozen..."  
> -Dancing With Our Hands Tied


	3. Butters Stotch

**Sixth grade.**

I get home from the bus stop, and the first thing I notice is that all the pictures of me in the house are taken down. The walls where the picture frames had been are faded with time. The house is always eerily silent when I get home. Mom and Dad are always at work at this time, but today, the house feels like a different kinda eerie. An eerie that makes me shiver and long for another jacket. All of the lights in the house are off, but golden sunlight comes in through the windows, making everything orange. A beam of sunlight bounces off the TV and into my eyes. Dust motes float between the beams. It all looks so pretty, and yet, scary.

With another suppressed shiver, I run up to my room, suddenly afraid of being all alone. I scrabble for my phone somewhere in my backpack still bouncing on my shoulders. In the safety, yet prison, of my room, I drop my backpack and properly search for my phone. My heart’s pounding, and my breathing's uneven. It’s in the smallest pocket, where I last put it. Sighing in relief, I call the only person who I know will answer—Kenny.

It rings twice, and in the short seconds, I can hear my heart in my ears. Then he picks up. “Hey, Leo,” he says. “What’s up?”

The very sound of his voice brings a wave of relief over me.

“N-nothing, I just—I just really hate bein’ home alone, and I need someone to talk to for now,” I say. It’s true. After I get home on the weekdays, I bolt right up to my room and put on loud music to calm myself down and forget about the ghostly coldness of the house. I don’t usually need to go bothering people, but today, the feel of the house just ain’t right.

Worry takes an edge in Kenny’s voice. “Why? What’s wrong? Do you want me to come over?”

“Oh, no. It—it’s fine. I don’t wanna bother you. I know you got Karen with you, and—”

“Karen’s out with her friends right now. Leo, if you need me to come over, you know I will,” Kenny says. “You aren’t bothering me.”

I toss a glance around my room. Sometimes, this is the place I go to to hide from the cold foreboding of the house, and I feel safe. Sometimes, I’m locked in here like a prisoner in his cell, and I dread my room. The feeling I get from my room usually depends on the day. Today, I’m here taking refuge from the foreboding, but I still feel like a prisoner, and dread the turquoise walls. So I lie and say, “No. It’s fine. Really. Thanks for answerin’ though.” I hang up before I can say more or he can convince me to let him come over.

I take my homework from my backpack and crawl into bed. I do my homework, because doing math problems can help ease me as much as music does. I turn my phone’s volume to maximum to drown out the heavy silence of the house.

 

A week’s passed since that day I noticed all the pictures of me had been taken down. When my parents got home that night, I’d asked them about it. They just told me not to worry, and that they were just trying something new.

But apparently, that “something new” involves not talking to me.

Eric comes into the house without knocking like usual. It was a month ago when he told me I never lost my key, but he took it. I was angry, of course, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t make up the time I lost being grounded. In February, Eric’s mom and Clyde’s dad started alternating between which house to stay in. One week it’s Eric’s, the next it’s Clyde’s. When Eric usually has to sleep over at Clyde’s house, he often bikes to me, where he’ll stay for as long as possible to stay away from Mr. Donovan and Clyde for as long as possible. This week, he’s over at Clyde’s.

He tosses his gaze around the living room and snorts. “What happened to all those stupid pictures of you? It used to look like a shrine dedicated to you in here.”

I stare down at my homework in my lap. “They said they took ‘em down ‘cause they’re tryin’ something new, but…”

Eric sits next to me, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “But what?”

“But it feels like they’re tryna avoid me,” I whisper. Saying it aloud makes my shoulders begin to shake.

“What do you mean?” Eric asks.

“Well, last week, they felt kinda distant. When they got home from work, they didn’t ask me how school went like they usually do. They—they kinda just walked past me like I wasn’t even there. Then at dinner, they didn’t say anything to me there either. At night, they didn’t come in to say goodnight. I thought that they just had a bad day at work, so I didn’t think much of it. But then it kept goin’ on and on. Eventually, on Saturday, I asked my mom if I did anything wrong and why they were mad at me. She said I did nothing wrong and they weren’t mad. But she said it like she was thinkin’ aloud or something. Like her head wasn’t connecting to her body. It was so monotone and distant. I asked my dad the same thing. But he just gave me the same answer as my mom.”

I realize with a start that there are tears falling onto my homework, staining the paper with wet dots. My breathing’s all hiccupy. I wipe my nose with my sleeve. Eric sighs, looking annoyed from the corner of my good eye. But he puts a stiff arm around me. I don’t care if he’s reluctant to do it. I sob into his shoulder anyway. I feel his other arm go round me.

“What did I do wrong?” I whisper, words muffled by his shirt.

“Nothing,” says Eric. “Your parents are just assholes is all.”

Even if I feel like I should, I don’t argue with him. Maybe he’s right.

There’s a beat of silence, and I keep hiccuping into Eric’s shoulder. Then he pushes me away. “Stop crying. This is a stupid thing to waste tears over.”

I drag my hands down my face. “I don’t understand why they’re treating me like this though,” I say.

Eric repeats, enunciating every word, “They’re assholes.”

“But why?”

“Because parents suck, Butters. They don’t care about us. They ground us, and take away our video games, and make us eat healthy, and oh look! I lost five pounds!”

I glance at Eric’s stomach. He _has_ lost five pounds, and it’s not just his griping. Again, I wanna argue with him, but instead I say quietly, “How’s breaking up your mom and Mr. Donovan going?”

Eric lays down on the couch, his feet propped up next to me. “Terrible. No matter what Clyde and I try, they won’t break. If anything, they’re growing _stronger_ because of it.”

“How?” I wonder.

“Like just now. We pretended to get in a fight to show our parents we don’t get along. I claimed Clyde bit me, when in reality I bit myself.” He pulls back his sleeve to show me the red teeth marks on his arm. “Clyde claimed I punched him in the stomach. But Roger just told Clyde that biting isn’t good, and Mom told me not to punch people. Then she made us apologize to each other and hug it out.” Eric groans. “Then she said if we do it again, her and Roger will have to ground us. They act like they’re such great fucking parents, and they can take on the whole goddamn world together. It’s sickening.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s pretty bad.”

“Clyde’s tempted to give up, but I told him not to lose faith. There’s still a lot of things we haven’t tried,” Eric says.

“As long as you try, I guess,” I mumble.

There’s quiet for a moment while Eric and I just sit there. Then Eric speaks up and asks, “What do you wanna do? I’m bored.”

“We can watch YouTube on the TV,” I suggest.

So we do.

In the middle of the seventh video, Eric says, “Remind me to bring my Nintendo Switch or something over next time. You have zero video game consoles here. I don’t know how you live such a caveman life.”

I laugh. “Okay. I need more practice with video games anyway,” I add.

“Yes you do. You suck at them.”

“I suck so much that I should work at a Thai massage parlor.”

Eric grins at me. I realize it’s the first time in a long time I’ve seen a genuine smile from him. I’ve never realized how nice his smile is. It reaches his eyes and makes them glitter. There’s no malice or guard behind it like the smiles he throws around at school or around our friends. “That’s right.”


	4. Eric Cartman

**Sixth grade.**

I hate running the mile. It’s dumb. And the Friday before spring break? That’s just fucked up. And when am I ever gonna have to run a mile in my everyday life anyway? The only running I do is away from my problems. I’m usually one of the last kids to finish up my mile, and the slowest too. The only kids slower than me is a group of girls who use PE to gossip.

Panting and out of breath, I stumble over to the bleachers and collapse next to my water bottle. Why the hell does it have to be so hot today? It’s only April. Stan and Kyle had finished _minutes_ ago, so now the only evidence left over is their sweat stains and red faces. Kyle’s face is as red as his hair. Stan is already breathing normally. Goddamn jock. But then again, maybe him taking his inhaler before PE every day has something to do with it.

“At least you’re not the last one this time,” Stan says. He gestures to the track.

The group of dumb bitches with their PE shirts knotted in the front to make it tighter walk the remaining three minutes, talking amongst themselves without a care in the world. I use the hem of my shirt to wipe off the sweat rolling down the side of my face. I unscrew the cap of my water bottle, raising it to my mouth. God, my tongue is so dry.

I’m taking lukewarm gulps when Stan reaches over and squeezes my water bottle from the bottom up, getting _all of my fucking water_ on my face and shirt. I glare at him and Kyle recording. Water drips from my hair. They’re both laughing because they think it’s just _so_ funny. I crunch up my water bottle and hurl it at Kyle’s head. It bounces off his hat harmlessly.

“Yeah, real peak comedy, guys. So hilarious to fucking waste my goddamn water and get my clothes wet,” I snap. I squeeze water from my shirt.  “I’ll get you _both_ back for this. I promise.”

Kyle keeps laughing. “Whatever, Cartman,” he says as the bell rings. The class splits as the girls and guys go back to their locker rooms. I see his screen when he posts the video onto his Instagram account, as well as Snapchat.

It’s in the locker room where my idea of revenge on Stan and Kyle comes to mind. They’re talking to each other as they change. God, why can’t they see how gay they are for each other? And that’s where the idea sparks. This stupid town loves their gay shit. It all started with the Asian girls and their Yaoi art with Tweek and Craig. A grin splits across my face as I stick my arms through my hoodie. I’ll make those assholes wish they never wasted my water.

At lunch, I go onto Instagram and create a new account. I make the username painfully obvious: stanandkyle.are.gay. I grin to myself, glancing up at Stan and Kyle talking to each other. Those idiots aren’t even aware of what I’m doing. I put the name as “ **Make Style known everybody** ,” and the bio as “Like our beloved Craig and Tweek, Stan and Kyle also make out behind the slide.” I have a few gay-ish pictures of Stan and Kyle on my phone already (for blackmail uses) and I post them all onto the account. In order to gain a large following and make it more humiliating for Kyle and Stan, I have to advertise the account _somehow_. I post a story on mine and Clyde’s shared fan page of Tweek and Craig, tagging my new account. (Don’t ask about the fan page. We made it back in fourth grade. The account _does_ have almost three thousand followers though.) Now all I have to do is play the waiting game. Granted, I’m not very _good_ at that game, but whatever.

It’s waiting for the (late) bus when Kyle shoves me against the wall of the Science building, glowering. “What?” I ask innocently.

“You know what,” Kyle growls. He lets go of my hoodie to point at his phone screen. “What the hell is this?”

The screen displays my fan page, already at a hundred and seventy-two followers. I shove down a smug grin. “I don’t know.”

Kyle’s hand flexes into a fist, and I see how troubling it is for him to resist punching me. “Delete it,” he snaps. “Delete it or I’ll hurt you.”

I click my tongue, shaking my head. “How do you know _I_ made that, Kyle? It could be one of the Asian girls. Did you assault one of them yet? Or is every little bad thing that happens to you immediately my fault?”

“You took these pictures!” he shouts.

My ears ring. People are taking notice now. Where the hell are Stan and Kenny? “What proof do you have of that?” I ask.

“I saw you take them!”

“Fair point.” The bus pulls up next to the curb and a surge of kids hurry to the doors. I move past Kyle and into the forming line. “And, sorry. I’m not taking it down. That’s what you get for wasting my water, getting me and my PE clothes wet, and posting that stupid video.” I flash him a grin. “Sucks to be you.”

I see Stan and Kenny walk up as I step onto the bus. I hear Kyle’s bitching as I sit down. As they board, Stan’s calm words and Kenny’s laughter float to me. It’s what those assholes deserve.

 

I'm still tasting the triumph on my tongue when I’m greeted by Mr. Kitty when Clyde unlocks the front door. We’re staying over at his house this week. It’s hard to believe it’s been a full year and two months Clyde and I have been switching off houses. The first time we switched, Mom declared to pack up a week’s worth of clothes because we were staying at Roger’s for the week. I threw a fit and asked why. She explained that her and Roger wanted to get a feel of what it would be like to stay in a house together. Like we were a family or something. It was completely stupid. I hated it the first couple of months, but the hate eventually died down. Now I’m just used to it. I wonder if this constant feeling of moving from one house to another is how kids with divorced parents feel.

I pick up Mr. Kitty at my feet, cooing into her soft fur. She purrs beneath my fingertips. Since Mom and I can’t leave Mr. Kitty on her own for a week, we bring her with us when we’re staying at Clyde’s. The first time, I was disappointed when Mr. Kitty took a liking to Clyde and Roger. Clyde used to have a dog, Rex, but he died in fourth grade because he was ran over by a careless driver.

Since Mom got a proper job back in December, she’s no longer here to greet me when I come home from school. Mom stopped whoring herself two weeks after her and Roger started dating, when things between them became “serious.” From that point until December, she was unemployed. Butters must feel this feeling of emptiness of the house when he comes home. But then again, it’s just him after school. I have Clyde and Mr. Kitty.

Clyde drops his backpack by the stairs, kicking off his shoes and throwing them in the closet next to the front door. “If I made popcorn, wanna share?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, toeing off my loose Converse.

I collapse on the blue couch, reaching for the remote. Since Clyde’s dad actually has a good job, his house is nicer and significantly bigger than mine. At first, I resented it. Then I grew familiar with the pale green walls and pinkish floors. I don’t know _why_ , but the first week Mom and I stayed over, she told me to put my stuff in the empty closet in the guest room. I refused, obviously, keeping my stuff in my suitcase. Now, the closet in the guest room has half of my clothes hung up.

Clyde disappears into the kitchen. Mr. Kitty nuzzles into my arms as I switch the channel to some random telenovelas. I learned Spanish years ago for the sole purpose to swear at my friends and teachers and adults in another language and they wouldn’t know. I ended up learning the whole language. I like telenovelas because of the over dramatization, and because it annoys anyone watching with me because I don’t put on English subtitles.

I hear that familiar crackle of popcorn popping. A few seconds later, the microwave beeps. Clyde comes into the living room with a big bowl of popcorn. He takes one glance at the TV as he sits down, pushing my legs off the couch. “Not this again,” he complains. He puts the bowl between us. I take a handful and shove it in my mouth.

Mr. Kitty follows my hand, sniffing.

“Too bad,” I say around the hot popcorn.

Clyde sighs and slumps further into the couch. “This is boring, Eric. I don’t even get what they’re saying. Why can’t you put on the subtitles, at least? Or better yet, let’s watch, like, old Terrance and Phillip episodes.”

“ _¡Cállate! Ellos son viejos de todos modos._ ”

Clyde furrows his brows at me, slowly munching on his popcorn. “...What?”

“ _¡Dije callado, gilipollas!_ ” I exclaim.

Clyde shrugs, eyes turning back to the TV. “Still can’t understand you. Or what these people are saying.” He fiddles with his phone. He laughs, then asks me, “Did you make this?” He shows me the Stan and Kyle fan page.

I turn back to the TV. “Yeah. During lunch.”

“I mean, cool, but why? They aren’t actually gay.”

“No, they’re not. But remember how Tweek and Craig started out saying they ‘weren’t gay’?” I point out.

Clyde nods at me. “That’s true. Why’d you make it though?”

“Revenge.”

“That video Kyle posted of you during PE when Stan squeezed your water bottle?” he guesses.

“Exactly.”

“That’s fair.”

“At least _someone_ thinks so!” I toss up a piece of popcorn and catch it in my mouth. Mr. Kitty mewls at me. I scratch under her chin. “No, Mr. Kitty. You’ll choke and die if you eat popcorn.”

She stands and turns around on my chest, flicking her tail under my nose before curling into a ball on my stomach. What a spoiled brat.

The episode I’m watching ends. Clyde asks again if he can put something else on. “Okay, fine,” I say.

So he changes the channel. Mine and Clyde’s phone pings, and I check mine to see a text from Mom in the stupid group chat between me, her, Clyde and Roger. I open it and read: “Roger and I will be coming home late.”

I groan. “They’re going on _another_ date,” I say to Clyde.

He grumbles, “God, nothing’s working to break them up.”

Mr. Kitty jumps onto the floor. I watch her stretch, clawing at the floor. Then she trots up the stairs with her tail sticking straight up.

“Something has to work,” I say. “We’ll think of it.”

Clyde sighs dejectedly. “We’ve been saying that since they first told us they were together. It’s been over a year, and nothing’s worked. How can you be so determined?” he asks.

“Giving up is for spineless pussies,” I tell him.

 

Mom and Roger come home at around ten at night, and they’re both beaming. Clyde and I trade a look on the couch as Roger and Mom sit on the coffee table in front of the TV. It glows blue behind them in the dark living room. I’m about to tell them to move when Roger says, “Boys, Liane and I have big news.”

“You’re breaking up?” I ask hopefully.

Mom’s brown eyes gleam in a way I’ve never seen before. “No.”  She sticks out her left hand, showing off the glittering rock on her ring finger. It sparkles even in the dark. I feel my gut sink. She continues, “We’re engaged.”

Clyde’s jaw drops. He sits up straight, leaning closer at Mom’s hand to get a better view. “When?” he sputters.

“Today. We went on a date in Denver and I proposed,” Roger says, kissing Mom’s cheek.

The shock makes completely numb. I don’t feel angry or sad or happy. I feel like I have static for bones. But then again, my arm is asleep.

I realize I’m on my feet with my phone in hand when Mom asks, “Where are you going, sweetie?”

My hand’s on the doorknob when I say, “Not here.” Then I’m out the door.

I forgot my hoodie inside, and I refuse to go back in. That would look pathetic. Through the fence, I go into the side door of the garage. It’s always unlocked. I take my bike and wheel it out until it’s on the sidewalk. Then I hop on it and start pedaling.

I’ve never pedaled so fast. I don’t know where I’m going until I drop my bike on the driveway of Butters’ house. I stare up at the house, chestnut brown in the moonlight. The light in the window that belongs to Butters’ room is still on. In my rush, I fucking forgot his key. And there’s no way I’m knocking. His parents would turn me away for showing up so late. So the only thing left to do is climb.

On his windowsill, I see him at his desk, his back to me. I knock on the glass, watching him jump and whirl around on his chair. The expression of fear disappears from his face when he sees me. He crosses the room and opens the window.

“Eric?” he asks.

I roll onto his bed. I stare up at the ceiling, words still not coming to me. Butters’ worried expression sticks. He sits at the foot of his bed, folding his legs.

“What’s wrong?”

“I—” My voice cracks, and so does my numbness. I’m filled with cold despair. “Roger and Mom got engaged today.”

Butters’ eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” he says.

I sit up, leaning my back against the headboard of his bed. I stare at him. His knuckles are rubbing together in his lap. His pale blonde hair falls into his eyes, just as pale in blue. Except for his left eye. Its blue is paler. The blind one with the thin scar. I hate him, yet, I always come running to him in times like this. I don’t hate him as much as Kyle or Mom or Roger, but there’s still that hot twisting feeling I get whenever he’s around.

But right now, I don’t feel that. All I feel is defeated. That’s when I feel arms slide under mine, wrapping around my torso. I don’t shove Butters off me, but I don’t hug him back either. I break down crying instead. Right there while Butters is hugging me like the homo he is, and I’m crying. I slump into him, unable to fathom the wetness of my cheeks. I let him hug me tighter and bury his face in my shoulder. I let him do it only because he’s letting me cry. Like he always does. And he never judges. And that’s what scares me the most.

I seize up, pushing him off me. I’m scrubbing my face dry when Butters says, “If you want, you can stay over. If you really don’t wanna go back home.”

I blink at him, telling him he’s stupid and gay on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t get further than that. I find myself nodding and using the collar of my shirt to wipe my eyes.

“I’ll get some blankets and snacks,” he says. He gets up and leaves the room, leaving the door open. The hallway light is on, and I hear him gathering blankets. He dumps them on the floor before leaving again.

We stay up past midnight eating chips and drinking soda and watching Netflix on Butters’ computer until he face plants into his bed and falls asleep instantly. I stare at him, face down on his pillow, his breathing already deep. I can’t believe his Hello Kitty socks and blue Psycho Bunny pajama pants are real. I shut off his computer, resisting the temptation to take a peek at his search history, and huddle underneath the spread out blankets on the floor. My last thought before I drift off is something along the lines of me forgetting the engagement in Butters’ company and Butters’ stupid laugh ringing in my ears and the cold sense of dread that sticks even as I drift off.

Fucking gay either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And you should think about the consequence  
> Of you touching my hand in a darkened room..."  
> -Gorgeous


	5. Butters Stotch

**Sixth grade.**

There’s only two weeks of sixth grade left. It’s Thursday, and I’ve already finished all my homework. Mom and Dad aren’t home. They’ve been coming home late for the past three weeks. It’ll be almost ten by the time they get home. Or sometimes, I’ll be in bed when I hear the front door open. But they always leave me food in the fridge that I can microwave for dinner.

Yet every day they’re gone, Eric’s there in their place. Ever since his mom and Mr. Donovan’s announcement of their engagement that night, Eric’s come over to my house every day. We walk to my house from the bus stop. We play video games, and I convince Eric to do his homework with me. Then we play more video games, only with snacks on the coffee table. It’s hours of laughter and talking and good-natured insults until Eric goes home at around six, just in time for dinner. Sometimes, I watch him from my doorstep as he crosses my lawn onto his lawn. Sometimes I watch him bike off into the distance.

Today, Eric didn’t walk home with me. He has a checkup, so Roger picked him and Clyde up after school. Eric was scowling the whole time. From the walk from the Science building to the car.

And now I’m sat on the couch with my hands pressed between my knees. The TV’s on, but I’m not watching what’s playing. I’m too distracted anticipating Eric to barge in like he owns the place.

The gnawing anxiety in my gut is horrible. I’m so used to Eric being over that I’m not used to it when he’s not. The TV keeps droning on. I glance at the screen.  _Spongebob Squarepants_ reruns are on. I try to watch to distract myself, but my mind keeps drifting.

The door swings open, hitting the wall, and Eric comes in. “Sup, loser,” he says, kicking the door closed.

I let out a breath, slumping into the couch. “Hey, Eric.”

Eric jumps onto the couch beside me and takes off his backpack. “I brought my Switch, and a few games that we can both play.”

“Which ones?” I ask, peering into his backpack as he unzips it.

“ _Mario Kart 8_ , _Arms_ , that dumb one you like—”

“ _Snipperclips_?” I wonder eagerly.

Eric rolls his two-toned eyes at me. “Yeah. That one. Now will you let me finish? There’s also  _1-2 Switch_ ,  _Overcooked_ , and _Minecraft_ because fuck it.”

I clap my hands together. “Let’s play all of them.”

Eric raises a skeptical eyebrow at me. “Really? Because last time I suggested we play all of them you told me it was a”—Eric impersonates my voice with his eyes crossed—“school night.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “Yeah, well I’m feelin’ rebellious tonight,” I say.

Eric laughs. “If that’s what you define as rebellious, okay,” he mutters.

He hooks the Switch up to the TV, and we play a round of  _Arms_. He wins. He also wins the best out of three rounds of  _Mario Kart 8._ At least I won one of the rounds. It was the last one too.

Eric scoffs, “It was just luck and no skill.” He swaps the cartridge for _Overcooked._

“You’re just bitter because I won the last round,” I say matter-of-factly.

Eric turns to throw a  _Really?_ look at me over his shoulder. He scoffs again and tosses the  _Mario Kart_ game cartridge in my face. It bounces off my nose and into my lap. I grin widely as Eric crumples into the couch.

“Ready, bitch?” he asks.

I nod, facing the TV. “Yup.”

“Good,” says Eric. “Because we better get these orders right.”

Eric finally agrees to play  _Snipperclips_ , but only because we’ve played all the other games he’s brought except  _Minecraft_. I like this game so much because I’m usually the one who cuts the shapes right, and it’s Eric who has trouble with it. It’s funny to see him rage so hard he has to steeple his fingers with his eyes closed and sit completely still.

It’s dark by the time we’re building nonsense in a flat world in  _Minecraft._ Eric snickers. “Flat like Wendy.”

“Eric!” I exclaim.

He shrugs. “What? She’s not even here.” He builds a wiener out of clay blocks, and all I can do is shake my head at his immaturity.

I lick Cheesy Poof dust off my fingers. I wonder if Mom and Dad will be home in time to make dinner. Or if I’ll have to microwave leftovers from the fridge again. All I know is that I should be happy for Mom and Dad because they’re out together when they’re not here. But I can’t feel happy for them, and that makes me feel guilty.

“Aren’t you worried?” I ask Eric.

“About what?” he says, keeping his eyes on his monstrosity in our flat world.

“Seventh grade! We’ll be goin’ to a brand new school. Ever since preschool, we’ve been at South Park Elementary, but after summer’s over, we’ll be at Mala Vista Middle School. I’m nervous as heck, and this year ain’t even over yet.”

Eric glances at me. “You’ll be fine,” he says dismissively.

I roll the blue controller over in my hands. “I sure hope so,” I mumble.


	6. Eric Cartman

**Seventh grade.**

You know, I think I’ve officially gone insane. I mean, there’s definitely something wrong with me. Why else would I want to throttle Kenny whenever he puts his poor person hands on Butters’ shoulders? (I mean, killing Kenny wouldn’t do any good except for the satisfaction of it because he’ll just come back the next day. But maybe that’s a good thing. I wouldn’t want Kenny to die permanently.) Why else would my face get all hot whenever Butters shoots me an exasperated look from across the History classroom when the teacher says something stupid? Why would my pants get tight when he gives me a secretive upward tilt of his lip that brings flashes of the oddly sexual dream I had of him last night?

Where did that dream even  _come_ from? What fucked up thought did I have sometime earlier that day that triggered that? Why am I thinking like this? I’m going crazy. I knew it. I’ve spent so much time with Butters that it’s fucking up my thought process.

“Eric.”

I look up at my history teacher, Ms. Sables, at the front of the classroom. She’s peering at me down the bridge of her nose. I say, “What?”

“What’s the answer?”

I turn my palm up to the ceiling. “Can you repeat the question?”

“What did the Song era use gunpowder for?” she deadpans.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Guns?”

Ms. Sables inspects the classroom. “Who knows the _correct_ answer?”

I roll my eyes when she points to some kid, and I tune her out again. I prop my head up with my hand, staring down at the words of the textbook in front of me. These stupid books are so lame. These topics could actually be interesting if the idiot writers didn’t use such boring words. I’ve never been bored by blood and gore, but this book makes me want to scrape my brains out through my nose like the Egyptians.

I feel eyes on me, and I look to my left. Butters is looking at me again, and he has a piece of binder paper held up just low enough so the teacher can’t see it but I can. _“I’m so bored,”_ the paper reads.

I shoot Butters a thumbs up and mouth, “Same.”

“Butters,” Ms. Sables says, recapturing Butters’ attention. He wads up the paper as quietly as he can under his desk.

“Yes?” he says.

“What did the Chinese printer do for its society?” she asks.

“Um. It allowed common people to have texts, and it gave them hope that their kids could become scholars?” he answers.

Ms. Sables nods. “Very good.”

I toss my broken-off pencil eraser at the person in front of me. It flies over her head. She glares back at me. I turn my eyes to the board when she does, keeping the best inconspicuous expression I can. She turns back around.

I rub my brow, staring at the clock above Ms. Sables’ head. Only five more minutes until class is over. God, I can’t wait for lunch. I don’t even care if I have PE after. This class bores me half to death. Kenny also has Ms. Sables and I wonder if he’s ever actually died of boredom in this class. That’d be cool. And it would prove a point.

I wish I had third period History. All of my friends seem to have History then. Kenny, Stan, Kyle (but he’s not my friend), Craig, Tweek, and Jimmy. Instead, the only person I know in fourth period History is Butters and stupid Wendy at the front of the classroom.

I’m honestly so proud of Stan for swearing off that dumb bitch for his middle school years. I mean, really, it should be for life. It’s basically one-sided. She’ll never love him as much as he loves her. He should just get with Kyle already. They’re so hopelessly in love with each other, whether they know it or not.

The bell finally rings, and I’m the first one out of the classroom. Butters catches up, much to my disappointment. “Do you know what’s for lunch today?” he asks.

“No idea,” I say, uncomfortably aware of how there’s only an inch of space between our shoulders. His closeness reminds me of how I dreamt he was knelt in front of me with the same secretive upward tilt of his lip he shot me during class. And how I woke up sticky, with Butters’ face and that smirk burning in my brain. And realizing I was still a little hard and ended up jerking off to the thought of me cumming on Butters’ face since I woke up before it could happen in the dream. I mean seriously, this shit has never popped up in my dreams before. I should see a therapist.

“I hope pizza. Everything else they serve is kinda gross. Even the pizza,” he adds.

I force a laugh, my throat caving in at the memory that I totally masturbated to Butters sucking my dick last night. Nobody can ever know that. Holy fuck, if they did, I’d kill them and then myself. “Yeah. The pizza _does_ taste like cardboard, huh?” I rasp.

“You okay?” Butters asks me. I nod, staring straight ahead to avoid looking at his face. Because if I did, I would uncontrollably glance at his lips and get hard thinking about them around my throbbing dick.

The cafeteria isn’t serving pizza, but grilled cheese or salad or chili verde with rice. I settle for the chili verde, already lukewarm. Butters and I sit at our table, the third one down from the door next to the windows. Since it’s been two years since our parents started dating, Clyde and his friends have resumed sitting with us again. I sit in the vacant space between Jimmy and Stan. Butters sits next to Kenny, and they trade smiles, and a bitter taste in the back of my throat rises up.

Maybe I’m getting sick. I gulp down my chocolate milk to wash away the bitter taste. It works, but only temporarily. It comes back three seconds later.

“Dude, Cartman,” Stan says, eyeballing my empty milk carton in my fist.

“What?” I say.

“Do you know how to shotgun, like, water or something?” he asks.

“ _What_?” I repeat.

Kyle on Stan’s other side nudges him. “Stop it, dude. Even if he did know, it’s not like he could teach you,” he says.

Stan’s mouth twists to the side. “That sucks.”

I’m still gaping at him in disbelief, even when he does get back to his grilled cheese. In sixth grade, Stan made the executive decision to go full pussy and become a vegetarian hippie. I don’t know how he stands it. The only thing he can order at KFC is corn and mashed potatoes, or maybe mac and cheese. It sounds like a sad life.

When everyone’s finished eating, we leave the cafeteria to hang out in the quad because the cafeteria is stuffy. Middle school, we learned, does not have recess. It’s just extended lunch where kids can hang out around the school until the bell rings. It’s kind of lame, not having playground equipment to fuck around with, but we _are_ allowed to kick around soccer balls or throw around a football.

Ever since the first day of school, we all usually switch between football, soccer, and basketball, except Stan and Kyle kind of ruin football and basketball. Stan’s on the football team for the middle school. He uses us for practice and that sucks. Kyle’s on the basketball team, but he’s too competitive to play with. He’s such a bitch. The only sport _not_ ruined is soccer, but even that can get boring because whatever team Tweek’s on, that team wins.

So most of the time, I sit on the bleachers or ground depending on where we are and spend all of lunch on my phone. Today though, I can’t focus on my phone like I usually can. This really confirms my suspicions that I’m going crazy. There’s never been a time where my phone doesn’t function as a distraction.

On the football field, Butters and Kenny are on the same team, and Kenny’s dribbling the soccer ball between his pink Converse. He passes it to Butters next to the goal, who scores. Kenny’s team cheers, and Kenny lifts Butters off his feet in a celebratory hug.

“Gaywads,” I mutter under my breath. Still, my teeth grit as I glare at Kenny’s orange parka wrapped around Butters’ waist. The two teams switch sides, starting a new game.

Butters hugs Kenny back, a huge smile on his stupid face. The type of smile where he scrunches up his nose and makes it seem like his smile’s higher up on his face. But Kenny isn’t all that special. Butters has smiled at me like that before too. When he won me in _Mario Kart_ last week.

The thought brings a smug smirk to my face.

Then it falls.

I smack my forehead with my palm, curling my fingers into my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut. What the fuck is wrong with me?

 

After school, I walk with Butters back to his house. Stan and Kyle and Kenny don’t even react when I don’t follow them to Stan’s house. When we get inside, nobody’s home, as usual. The house is quiet and still. We collapse on the couch like we do every day. Butters starts on homework and I go on my phone. Not today though. Butters has his homework on his lap, and I’m holding my phone in front of my face. But then he pries my left hand off my phone. I stare at him staring at my hand. He holds my wrist. His fingers seem so much slimmer circling my fat wrist. His nails don’t have dirt underneath them either.

“What are you doing?” I deadpan.

Instead of replying, he traces the lines on my palm. It tickles, and my fingers flinch at the feeling. He extends his right hand, showing me his palm. He puts his hand next to mine and studies them. All I see is how huge my hand is compared to his.

He says, “Look. The lines on your left palm align with mine.”

I look. And I see it. The arcs and dips match, and the lines going down too. I pull my hand away, fear creeping slowly up my neck. I swallow thickly before snapping, “Stop being gay, Butters.”

He turns back to his homework. “Sorry. I was just curious.” Red dots his cheeks.

I feel a blush of my own coming on, and I don’t know why, but I know I hate it. I shift away from him, all the way until I’m at the other end of the couch. He stays where he is, fiddling with his pencil. I huff and turn back to my phone with a burning face. There is  _definitely_ something wrong with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Isn't it amazing  
> How almost every line  
> On our hands align  
> When your hand's in mine..."  
> -8 Letters


	7. Eric Cartman

**Seventh grade.**

I stare out the window, at the houses across the street and the streetlights and the stars. I glance at my clock. The red numbers read 12:03 a.m. That means it’s officially April sixteenth, a day before Mom and Roger’s wedding. It’s the second day of spring break, so it doesn’t matter how late I stay up. I’m exhausted, and yet, I can’t fall asleep. Too many things on my mind, too many faces.

One face in particular. One face with pale skin, pale blue eyes, pale blonde hair. Pale blue that’s really ice blue, and everyone’s too ignorant to see it. Pale blonde hair that’s appropriately the color of butter when it's dark and in artificial light, and white blonde in the sun. White blonde and soft. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. Butters is stupid. For making me act like this. For making me feel like this.

Jesus Christ. This can’t be happening. I can _not_ even be _considering_ that I might have a _crush_ on Butters in the _slightest_ way.

I bring my blankets up to my chin at the biting thought. There’s no way. There’s _no_ way. I’m not gay, and I most definitely _do not_ have a _crush_ on Butters Stotch. A boy. The gayest boy next to Craig and Tweek without being actually gay. A boy who owns Hello Kitty socks. Who watches _My Little Pony_ unironically. Who dances around his room while getting ready for school. Who knows all my secrets and never tells anyone and never judges me for it. Who’s treated me like a _person_ after I’ve been insulted and shunned. Who’s stuck by me through thick and thin, even when I do him wrong. Who supports me even if it’s wrong. Who let me cry on his shoulder when Mom and Roger announced their engagement. Who’s patiently sat and listened to me rant and rave about Mom and Roger and Clyde. Who’s laughed at my jokes even when they’re not funny. Who’s always _been there_ when no one else has.

I choke on air, squeezing my eyes shut. I shudder, suddenly freezing cold. I tighten my blankets around me.

I turn onto my back, staring up at my ceiling. _My_ ceiling, not the ceiling of the Donovan’s guest room. This week Clyde and Roger aren’t over at my house. Since Mom wants to keep the tradition of not letting the groom see the bride before the wedding, they decided to stay at their own houses. Admittedly, it’s weird not having them around. It’s almost been two years since we’ve been switching off houses. Not having Clyde sit next to me at breakfast is unfamiliar.

Butters’ dumb face smiling pops back into my brain. I always go to his house because of the whole engagement and Clyde situation. I knew it was a bad idea. I should’ve never gone to him.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Not gay. Not me. Nope. That’s impossible. I like girls. Not boys.

But a treacherous part of me second guesses my clearly sane half. But what if I am? What if my stupid friends have been right all along?

No. No, _don’t_ start thinking like that. I’m straight. I like girls. Girls. Girls. Girls.

That thing Butters told me about girls in fourth grade comes to mind, and I give up trying to think about girls. Fourth grade is a year I’ll never be able to forget. None of my friends and I can forget it—the longest and most hectic year of our lives.

Girls aren’t worth the trouble. I yawn. And maybe I’m not really gay. Maybe this wedding is just messing with my head. My mom’s getting married, and that’s something new. I’m gonna have a stepdad and stepbrother after tomorrow. And a stepsister. I always forget about Clyde’s sister, Charlene. I’ve seen her once, at Clyde’s mom’s funeral. She’s eight years older than Clyde and me. She’s gonna be at the wedding.

All of this is messing with my head and making me confused. I’m just confused. Yeah. That’s all it is. Confusion and fear of change.

 

Butters is the only person in maybe all of existence who can forgive me completely without holding any grudges against me. And Butters is the only person who I _trust_ completely. For that reason, I find myself walking towards his room in the afternoon a day before the wedding. The wedding where Mom will say yes to Roger Donovan. Roger will become my stepdad, and Clyde will become my stepbrother, and Charlene the stepsister I’ve met once.

Mom and Roger have been engaged for a year as of tomorrow. But tomorrow’s also their wedding. And as of tomorrow, I’d have been going over to Butters’ house for a year straight. I’ve spent most of my days at Butters’ ever since April seventeenth. I talk to Butters and only Butters about my worries and fears with my upcoming family. Sometimes tears come to my eyes, and I don’t bother wiping them away. Because it’s Butters, and I can trust him.

Last night was the worst. My thoughts were screaming, tearing through my brain and keeping me up all damn night staring at the ceiling. I tossed and turned, and when I closed my eyes, ice blue was frozen into place in my brain. Now I’m exhausted and feel like I might barf. And yet, I still find myself twisting the doorknob to Butters’ room.

The first thing I take note of when I open the door is the quiet feel of the bedroom. Rays of sunlight filter in, shattering on the floor, where tiny dust particles float through. Under the window is the dresser with the cage of two hamsters. The bed’s made, and a thirteen-year-old boy with hair as pale as butter when it’s dark and as white as ice when there’s sunlight sits with legs folded on top of it. Right now, it’s white like ice. He’s hunched over a notebook, doodling with colored pencils.

He looks up when he hears the door open, and my mismatched eyes lock with his. I freeze in the doorway. Butters could be cut from ice, I realize, with his hair and his eyes and his pale white skin.

Butters smiles at me, and cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “Hiya, Eric!” he says.

I don’t reply, kicking off my shoes at the door. All I can think about is why he has to be so cute all the time. I don’t bother censoring the obviously gay thoughts. There’s no going back after this. I sit next to Butters on the bed. On the notebook balanced on his knee is a drawing of a cityscape.

“I’m gonna use watercolors to paint the sky,” he tells me.

I still say nothing. I slump over, taking off my hat as I run my fingers through my hair. Butters’ posture turns from relaxed to rigid. He touches my knee, and I stare at his fingers.

“What’s the matter, bud?” he asks softly.

Turning my head ever so slightly, I can see all of his face, only a few inches from mine. His brows are furrowed, his mouth pressed in a worried line. My gaze lingers a few extra beats on his lips. His bottom lip is bigger than the top. But they’re pink and plush. Heat crawls up my neck and into my face. I can trust Butters. I know this, and I’ve told myself this over and over in my head since I woke up this morning. Before I can even register what I’m saying, I blurt, “Can I kiss you?”

Taken aback, Butters blinks and stutters and retracts his hand, flushing red. I feel my own face begin to burn hotter, from the base of my neck to the tips of my ears, but I don’t take back what I said because I, Eric Cartman, do not take back my words, no matter how stupid.

All Butters manages to say is, “Wh-wh…?”

I clench and unclench my hands. I’m prepared to feel completely stupid to say what I’ve never said aloud before. So I swallow my pride and push out through gritted teeth, “I…” I sigh and start over, words sticking in my throat. I begin to sweat even more. “Remember back in fourth grade when you went through that vampire phase? And you snuck into my room and tried to suck my blood, or whatever? Well, when you left, I told my mom that you were gay, found me attractive, and that you were confused about your sexual identity. Turns out that I predicted my own future, and… it’s me who’s confused.” I pause, biting my tongue, mulling over my words. The heat in my face intensifies somehow as regret settles over me. I snap my eyes up to Butters’, trying to quickly recover. “Not that I’m gay, or find you attractive or anything!” I cringe at my own words, because it’s an obvious lie, and it’s clear it’s my denial speaking.

Butters, _Butters,_ who hangs off my every word, even raises a skeptical eyebrow at me. His face is still red when he blows his cheeks out. There’s a few beats of silence before he says, “Well gosh… if it’ll help you, then sure you can.”

I stare at him in disbelief. I hadn’t expected him to say yes. I’d prepared myself for rejection because who the fuck would want to kiss me? I work my jaw before saying, “Okay…”

I freeze up, staring at Butters. He stares back. It only makes the blushes return to our cheeks. Groaning and rolling my eyes, I scoot closer to him, feeling completely stupid and vulnerable. I sit on my shins in front of him, putting my hands on his knees.

This is completely stupid.

I bring my face to Butters’, and our noses bump. Heat in my face flares. God, I’ve never blushed this much before and it sucks.

This is so stupid.

I continue to hover, with the side of my nose pressed against Butters’, our lips only centimeters apart. It’s only when Butters shifts that I snap out of it. I take a breath, catching a whiff of him. He smells like cotton candy. I lick my lips. Whether it’s because of Butters’ smell, or the fact that he’s so close, I don’t know. What I do know is how fast my heart is pounding right now. Tired of stalling, I nudge my head forward with closed eyes, and my lips connect with Butters’.

I don’t know how to fucking describe it. Fireworks explode behind my eyes. I’m hyper aware of the feeling of Butters’ lips on mine. His lips are so smooth and tender and I can taste his minty chapstick. Everything feels like it’s on fire. My heart is going to explode from my chest. Even if I register the fact that Butters is too stunned to kiss back.

I pull back. Only a little. Butters’ eyes fly open. I stare at his face. Unlike my other blonde friends, Butters doesn’t have freckles. Just that scar over his left eye. Eyes that bore into mine. “Fuck,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” Butters asks, worry etched in his features.

What’s wrong is how much I liked that kiss. That means I like guys, and that I’m gay. Or maybe Butters is an exception. I’m willing to come to terms with that, but not as much the possibility that I’m a homo. Instead of saying this out loud, I shake my head. My fingers gently curl around Butters’ soft cheek as I bring my face close again. We meet in the middle, and this time, Butters kisses back.

Every vein in my body hums as he leans into me. He clutches my red hoodie. Every time my lips leave Butters’, I can feel the air he’s breathing leave him. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, breathing heavily. The sound’s sweet to my ears. More. All I can think is _More more more._ We continue to peck at each other until I lose track of how many times we’ve kissed. I counted twenty-two before I forgot.

My hand that’s on Butters’ cheek slides down to his jaw. I use my thumb to delicately push down on his chin. He understands what I want and opens his mouth.

I’ve never French kissed someone before. This is my first time, and it’ll be with a guy. Somehow that doesn’t bother me knowing it’s Butters I’m going to French.

I unsurely guide my tongue past his lips. I flick my tongue at his. I feel his sigh fan out across my cheeks. He readjusts, murmuring against my mouth, “Like this.” His tongue caresses mine with such expertise that my eyes roll to the back of my head, and I moan. Just a little bit.

I want to kiss Butters forever, but when my lungs start to burn, I pull away. Last kiss broken, he meets my eyes. He looks sheepish and smug at the same time, his face red as he wipes his mouth with his arm. Closing up on myself, I scowl, though I don’t know at what.

“Don’t tell anyone about this. Ever,” I snap.

Butters drops his arm to his lap. His legs are still crossed, but the space on his comforter between us is wrinkled. “I promise you, Eric. I won’t tell a soul.” He holds up his pinkie.

Rolling my eyes, I wrap my pinkie around his. “Good,” I mutter before lunging at him. We collide, Butters toppling over and me pinning him to his bed. Our pinkies stayed twisted, even as I attack his lips. He smiles against me, and I decide I won’t stop kissing him. We can keep it a secret for as long as we want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I, I loved you in secret..."  
> -Dancing With Our Hands Tied


	8. Butters Stotch

**Seventh grade.**

He’s kissing me. Before the wedding, he’s kissing me. I’m wrapped up in his arms at four-thirty in the afternoon while his mom and his family add the finishing touches to the wedding happening at five p.m. He’s kissing me like he has something to lose. In a way, he does. Today, his mom, who’s been exclusively his for ten years of his life, will be shared with two other people. He’s losing his mom’s undivided attention. He’s losing his privacy that only an only child can have.

And he’s kissing me through it all.

I’ve never, ever kissed someone like this before. The type of kissing with tilted heads and heavy breathing. The type with Eric’s arms around my waist and my hands clutching the lapels of his tuxedo. We’re hidden away in the confession box in the church. It feels sinful and unholy, but also very in character for Eric.

There’s a voice outside the box, a voice belonging to one of Eric’s family members. “Eric, where are you? The wedding’s about to start! You need to get in your seat.”

Eric breaks the kiss and I stifle a gasp for air. His eyes search the door, silent as he waits for his family member to pass. I stare at him. His brown eye is the one I can see, flickering from left to right as he gazes through the holes in the confession box. His hat is off, exposing his brown hair. It’s kinda wavy—loose enough to not be considered curly. The kinda wavy that curls at the edges, and gets more textured in humidity. He got a haircut a few days ago, shaved on the sides but still leaving that mop of hair long enough to hang just above his eyebrows.

There’s grumbling, then the retreat of footsteps. Eric meets my stare and raises one of those eyebrows, disappearing under his hair.

I rub my knuckles together. “Wedding’s starting,” I say, realizing his hands are still on me. My heart pounds erratically at the thought.

He sighs and leans in to brush a kiss to my mouth. My knees go all weak. I’ve always liked Eric. He’s always had a special place in my heart, despite all the numbers he’s done on me. I’m always the first he runs to when he needs help with something, and I agree because I like helping him. And also maybe because I like _him,_ but I don’t think I realized that until he asked to kiss me yesterday.

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbles.

We take our seats in the front row. Eric sits at the end, and I sit between him and Kyle. Eric’s mom and Mr. Donovan allowed their sons’ friends to attend the wedding. We, Eric’s friends, sit on the left side of the church. Eric’s family’s here on this side too. With his aunts and uncles and cousins. I wonder if his mom’s upset that her mom ain’t here to see her get married. I’d be.

Eric and Stan and Kyle talk, and I’m mostly lost in thought, only interfering to secretly brush my fingers against the back of Eric’s hand as I quietly scold him when he says something about making Clyde his minion. He slides his fingers through mine and he squeezes gently. My heart skips a beat. Our hands are hidden at our sides so our friends can’t see.

Clyde’s family’s on the right side. Clyde and Craig and Tweek and Token and Jimmy. Clyde’s older sister’s at the end next to Clyde. I’ve only seen Clyde’s sister once—at Clyde’s mom’s funeral. She’s a whole heck of a lot older than us. When we were in fourth grade, she was just starting college. And now she’s gonna be Eric’s stepsister.

This morning, Eric dropped by and told me they’re going to New York with Clyde’s sister a few days after the wedding. Eric’s mom and Mr. Donovan wanna honeymoon there, and Eric’s sister offered to watch them, as long as they're with her in New York. Eric asked his mom to bring me along, and she agreed. I’d asked my parents and they said yes.

Stan and Kyle tease Eric about calling him Donovan, since Ms. Cartman is taking the Donovan name. Eric sticks up his middle finger like Craig and snaps, “Don’t call me Donovan. Or I’ll make you eat your parents.”

Stan and Kyle’s faces fall and grow white. Everyone takes Eric’s death threats seriously.

I squeeze his hand in disapproval. He glances at me from the corner of his violet eye, a ghost of an amused smirk on his mouth.

The wedding march starts, and there’s a collective shuffle as everyone in the church turns their heads towards the doors. The doors open, revealing the rest of the town who couldn’t find seats in the church, so they gathered outside. Eric said the whole town’s here because they wanna see the town’s whore finally settle down and see if it’ll backfire. I scolded him for calling his mom that and saying such cruel things. He just smirked and kissed me and told me to shut up.

Eric’s mom walks down the aisle with Eric’s grandpa at her arm in a traditional white wedding dress. The train drags behind her. Behind her veil, I can see her radiant red-lipped smile. I glance at Eric and catch a glimpse of the war of emotions battling across his face. He seems real conflicted. There’s worry and confusion and anger and happiness.

Clyde’s dad up on the dais smiles just as wide. There are tears in his eyes, not hidden behind glasses today. Eric’s mom makes it up to the dais and faces Mr. Donovan. And the ceremony begins.

 

After Eric’s mom—Mrs. Donovan now—and Mr. Donovan—Eric’s stepdad now—share the _I do_ and the kiss, Eric’s mom turns around and tosses the red rose and baby’s breath bouquet into the crowd of bridesmaids and other female guests. Stan’s sister, Shelly, catches it. She stares in surprise at the bouquet in her hands. Kenny bursts out laughing, and I peer past Stan and Kyle to see him laughing at his red faced brother, Kevin. He looks horrified. Everyone knows Kevin and Shelly used to be real close. Everyone knows Kevin’s in love with her too. And everyone knows Shelly’s dating Eric’s half-brother, Scott Tenorman. He’s not even here as Shelly’s date. I wonder what’s going on between them. When I look back at the crowd, I see Shelly hand off the bouquet to Eric’s cousin. Shelly’s pretty face is contorted in disgust.

Kenny says, “Well, Stan. Looks like Shelly’s getting married to Scott Tenorman next. Cartman’s gonna become your half-brother-in-law.”

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose and Eric throws a “Fuck you” at Kenny.

Everyone in the church stands and watches as the newlywed couple begin to walk down the aisle to the limo waiting out front. It'll take them to the community center where the reception is being held. Only the people invited will be able to attend the reception. So the whole town outside won't be able to go to that. Eric and Clyde and Clyde’s sister stand and follow their parents out of the church. Eric throws a glance at me over his shoulder as they leave.


	9. Butters Stotch

**Seventh grade.**

I’ve been to New York once. Back in fourth grade when Eric and them made me show up as a freak on a TV show so they could get some type of prize. It wasn’t a fun experience at all. I got grounded in the end. But this time I can’t get grounded for going because my parents approved that I can.

Liane and Roger got a hotel, so Clyde, Eric and I are staying at Clyde’s sister’s house. On the drive over from the airport to her apartment, she told me her name is Charlene. I told her I had a girlfriend named Charlotte in fourth grade, which sounds like Charlene. Eric rolled his eyes, and Clyde said, “Oh yeah. The Canadian.”

Even in the spring, New York is kinda cold. Not as cold as back home, but still cold enough for me to bury my nose in my scarf. We had walked down the street to a Starbucks to get hot cocoas and so Charlene could get a coffee.

“Lottie, can we go to Central Park?” Clyde asks, nursing his cocoa.

Eric groans loudly. “We’ve been fucking window shopping down Fifth Avenue all _day._ I’m pretty sure I saw some rich assholes laughing at us when we were by the Armani Exchange.”

Charlene tilts her head, brown hair falling over her shoulder. She looks a lot like Clyde. They have the same nose and brown eyes. “It’s cold though,” she says. “Let’s just go back to the apartment where it’s warm. We can watch a movie on Netflix.”

We cross the street back to the apartment buildings. There are so many more cars here than back home. There’s a lot of noise and light from the traffic. And people walking up and down the street. And tall gray buildings glinting in the afternoon light. But the closest thing to home is the cold in the air.

Charlene’s apartment is a nice one. She lives on the second floor. The walls are brick, the floor hardwood. She’s also got a nice decorating taste, since she’s studying to be an interior designer; she told us on the first day. The furniture is mostly black, the couch and armchair leather. The windows let in a lot of light. The kitchen and living room are in one big space you see walking in. There’s a hallway dividing the living room from the kitchen to the right where the bedroom and bathrooms are. Charlene was saying she has a roommate, one of her friends, but she explained to us that she’s in New Jersey with her boyfriend. There are four bedrooms, and Eric and I share one since him and Clyde refuse to share a room.

“Do you have a boyfriend yet, Lottie?” Clyde asks teasingly, plunking down on the leather couch.

Charlene flicks his head the way siblings do. “No, Clyde. Stop it. Do you have a girlfriend yet?” she retorts.

I sit on the armchair as Eric says, “No, but he’s head over heels for Bebe again.” He sits on the other end of the couch.

Clyde fires back, “Oh yeah? Says the one whose had various gay moments with Kyle _and_ Butters!”

Eric flushes and narrows his eyes at Clyde and mutters, “Take that back or I’ll kill you.”

Clyde’s face drains of color but he doesn’t take it back.

Charlene looks at me. “What about you, Butters? Do you have a crush on anyone?”

Eric’s head whirls around to me, and he’s got this warning expression on his face that I interpret as _Don’t you dare mention anything_. Clyde sits up and says, “Yeah. You haven’t really talked about being into anyone since Charlotte.”

I can feel the heat rush up to my face as my mind wanders back to the way Eric kissed my face last night. It was a sloppy, tired kiss that he dragged across my lips to my cheek. Since we’re sharing one of the rooms, we have to share a bed too. We slept back to back, but I was still giddy about the knowledge that I could turn around and he’d be close enough to touch.

I tear my eyes away from Eric’s before I give something away. It’s been five days since he kissed me the first time, and we’re planning on keeping it secret longer than just five days.

I observe Charlene. Even without a lotta makeup, she’s real pretty. Her lips are full and pink, her eyes big and brown. Her cheeks have a natural rosy hue to them.

Clyde snickers. “I think he might be into _you_ , Lottie. Butters, do you have a thing for girls whose names start with C-H-A-R-L or something?”

Eric says, “Gross! She’s my stepsister and _your_ sister, Clyde!”

I blush brighter, turning to Clyde. “No!” I say defensively. My voice gets all high and squeaky.

Charlene laughs. “It’s okay, Butters. I appreciate the admiration.” She winks at me and I burst into a fit of flustered giggles uncontrollably.

“Ugh,” Eric says.

Clyde laughs. Charlene kisses my forehead the way an older sister kisses your forehead, and I think I might faint.

Charlene sits between Eric and Clyde on the couch and pulls them to her sides in a half hug. Clyde leans into the embrace and Eric looks agitated. “I’m so glad I have two brothers now.” She kisses their foreheads. Eric gags and tries to push her away, but to no avail. Finally, Charlene lets go of them and picks up the remote. “So what do you guys wanna watch? I have a couple episodes of _Riverdale_ left.”

“I thought you already finished the seasons?” Clyde asks.

“I have. I was rewatching them, and I’m almost finished with them all.”

Clyde’s mouth forms an O. Eric slides down on the couch, his hands covering his face. “This is lame. I’m leaving.” He gets up and walks into the hallway where the bedrooms and bathrooms are.

I debate following him. If I don’t, then I can just sit here with Clyde and his sister. Or I can follow Eric to the room and wait and see what happens. I decide to leave Clyde and Charlene to their sibling bonding and walk down the hall where the rooms are. There are hanging frames of Charlene’s family and her roommate’s family. There’s a picture of Clyde and his dad and Charlene in a graduation cap and gown. They all beam at the camera happily, but their smiles don’t reach their eyes. Next to that picture is a picture of Clyde’s mom.

The room Eric and I are in is next to the picture of Clyde’s mom. I turn the doorknob and peek in. Eric lays on the bed, face up. His phone is on his stomach, earbuds in his ears. He mouths words, and his music is loud enough that I can hear that little buzz of the beat. I step in and close the door behind me. Eric turns his head to me. Then he goes back to staring at the ceiling. I cross the bare room and sit on the side of the bed.

I feel Eric’s arm curl around me. One of his earbuds fall out, and the words become a little clearer. “What’re you listenin’ to?” I wonder. I twirl the cord around my finger.

Eric takes it from me and puts it in my ear. With one earbud in, it’s excruciatingly loud. He holds the earbud in my ear, and I can almost pretend he’s holding my cheek. I’ve never heard this song before. Eric sings along, “ _Last night, damn, you were in my sex dreams._ ”

I flush, stammering, “Wh-what kinda song is this?” Usually Kenny’s the one to listen to dirty songs.

Eric stops singing and shrugs. “Lady Gaga. ‘Sexxx Dreams’,” he says.

“Now what’re you listening to that kinda song for?”

Eric smirks at me. “It’s Lady Gaga. What did you expect?”

He’s still holding my face—or rather the earbud in my ear. He leans in close to me, close enough that our noses touch. He continues singing, and suddenly I’m sweating at the way he’s staring at my mouth. His eyes lock with mine, and I swallow thickly. Eric’s eyes will forever haunt me. That brown and violet similar to Kenny’s eyes, but Eric’s have flecks of deep blue floating around the watered down violet. Breathing is hard with a pounding heart and loud, raunchy music in my ear.

He sings, “ _When I lay in bed I touch myself and think of you.”_

Then he presses his lips to mine and I feel like I’m melting right into his palm.

Every time I try to kiss back he pulls away, only to come back like he doesn’t want me to kiss him. I wonder if it’s a bad thing. So I let him kiss my bottom lip, and it takes everything in me not to reciprocate. His hand slides down my face to hold me at the nape of my neck. I keep my hands gripping his shirt to restrain myself from touching his face. The earbud falls out of my ear, and Lady Gaga’s dirty song disappears from my senses. The only thing infiltrating my senses, though, is the weight of Eric’s lips on mine.

He breaks the kiss a final time when we hear footsteps outside the door. Eric jumps away from me, grabbing his phone, and throws himself at the other end of the bed, his back to me. I cover my mouth with my hand, unable to think about anything else aside from the shameless and controlling way he kisses me. The footsteps continue on past the door, probably to the bathroom.

I turn back to Eric. He’s laying down, earbuds in once more. I bite my lip, fiddling with my hands. Was that real? Did he even kiss me? Or was I imagining it?

“C’mere. I wanna show you something,” Eric says.

I crawl over next to him. He offers me the earbud again. I take it and stuff it in my ear. Me sitting up against the headboard while he’s laying down is an awkward angle for the phone screen. And Eric’s got that privacy screen protector that’s dark from certain angles. Eric shoots a glare at me and grabs me by my ankles and yanks me down until I’m laying next to him. He plays the video.

I perk up, getting excited when I see _My Little Pony._ I think it’s a good show. Eric thinks it’s gay. The music in this video is happy and talking about smiles, in theme with the show. I find myself bobbing along. Then all the sudden Pinkie Pie starts beating up the other ponies and blood’s everywhere. I stare horrified at the screen, feeling sick to my stomach. Eric laughs at my face. Twilight Sparkle’s head is kicked off her body and I cover my face with my hands, letting out a yelp. Eric laughs harder and pries my fingers off my face.

“Watch the video, B-Butts! It’s _My Little Pony!_ You love this show!” Eric exclaims.

I roll away from the screen and take out the earbud. “I’m not smiling!” I cry. Dimly, I’m aware it’s the first time in three years he’s called me B-Butts.

Eric continues laughing as he grabs me by the waist and shoves his phone in my face. I can’t escape because he’s trapping me to his chest. The earbuds are unplugged and the volume from the phone is on full blast. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep the images out of my head, but the song keeps going on.

I catch Pinkie Pie stomping the guts out of Rainbow Dash, and her guts spew out her mouth. My tummy twists uncomfortably. “Eric!” I wail. His arm tightens around me.

“Ssh,” he says. “Keep watching.”

I do the opposite and turn my face into the pillow.

By the time it’s over, all the ponies are dead and their planet’s blown to bits and I’m crying. Eric’s laughing is more of pitiful cooing now as he kisses away my tears. In a soft tone of voice, he asks, “Wanna ask Charlene if we can watch _My Little Pony_ on Netflix?”

I vigorously shake my head. “No. I won’t be able to watch that show anymore without thinkin’ of that video. Good goin’, Eric. You ruined _My Little Pony_ forever.” A thought occurs to me and I snap my head around to Eric’s. His eyes twinkle with amusement. I can see the deep blue in his right eye because he’s in such a close proximity. “You did that on purpose,” I say in disbelief. “You did it on purpose so I won’t watch _My Little Pony_ anymore!”

He smirks and kisses my gaping mouth. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

I lightly punch his chest. “Fuck you, Eric,” I sniffle. He thumbs away the last of my tears.

“Suck it up, gaywad,” he says. He sings, “ _Come on everypony, smile, smile, smile, fill my heart up with sunshine, sunshine—_ ”

I clamp a hand over his mouth. “Stop it!” I sob. His eyes tilt up as I feel him smile. Then something wet and fleshy crosses my palm. I retract my hand, wiping it on my pants. “Ew! Why’d you have to lick my hand?”

Eric grabs my wrists and holds my hands to his chest. He kisses my face some more, chuckling lowly. “Stop crying, B-Butts,” he whispers.

I sniffle again. “You’re a meanie,” I croak.

He nuzzles the underside of my jaw and my heart does flips. “I know.”  He twists the fabric of my new T-shirt I got earlier today in his hands. It’s teal and Eric told me it’s Odd Future merch, whatever that is. “Even though you’re clueless about this group, it still looks nice on you.”

I blush. “O-oh. Thanks, Eric,” I say.

He nods. His hair brushes my cheek and it tickles. He lets go of me and walks to the door. “I’m gonna go find something to eat,” he says, ruffling his hair before putting his hat back on.

“Okay.”

Eric leaves and I’m alone in the room. I put my arm over my eyes, but that video and its visuals burn into the back of my eyelids. I whimper and leave the room as well. Eric’s going through the fridge. Charlene’s wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket eating cookies and cream ice cream from the carton, and Clyde’s stuffing his face with popcorn. He asks, “Where have you two been? You were making so much noise.”

I blush as I sink into the armchair. “Eric showed me this scary video with _My Little Pony_ ,” I mumble.

Charlene points her spoon at me. “ ‘Smile’?”

I nod.

“Yep. That video ruined the show for me too.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Why?” I squeak up at the ceiling.

Eric comes into the living room with a Sprite and a Dr Pepper. He tosses the Dr Pepper to me and says, “Stop your bitching. You’re in seventh grade anyway. What kind of seventh grader watches fucking _My Little Pony_?”

“I did!” I exclaim. I pop open the tab and raise the can to my mouth. Eric sits on the couch and flips me off. Next to Clyde and Charlene, they look like a real family. Blood family, not just family by marriage.

Over the top of his soda pop can, Eric sends me a mischievous smirk. The type of smirk that makes me feel like jelly.

 

The air is cold when we walk through the doors of the airport. Charlene kisses Clyde and Eric and her dad goodbye. She gives Eric’s mom a hug and congratulates her dad and Liane on their marriage once more. She gives me a squeezing embrace. And then she leaves with a wave.

It’s next to Eric on the plane back to Colorado when I’m going through my backpack when I realize I’m missing something. “My scarf!” I exclaim. I startle the woman awake next to me.

Eric furrows his eyebrows at me, pulling out one of his earbuds. “What?”

“I left my scarf at  Charlene's!” I choke on fear. What if my parents find out? They’ll ground me for irresponsibility for sure! Hamburgers, I’m screwed.

Eric rolls his eyes. “Fucking chill. I’ll have Clyde tell Charlene to mail it back home. Don’t freak out so much. Damn.”

I sink into my seat. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I walked through the door with you  
> The air was cold  
> But something 'bout it felt like home somehow, and I  
> Left my scarf there at your sister's house..."  
> -All Too Well


	10. Eric Cartman

**Summer.**

We’re moving into Clyde’s house. That’s what Mom told me this morning. We’re selling the house I’ve known all my life and moving into Clyde’s house. We’re moving away from Avenue de Los Mexicanos. Stan and Kyle and Butters live on this street. Butters is my neighbor. Not anymore. Now we’re going to be a block down. A block down where Craig and Jimmy and Kevin Stoley live. Even Tweek lives on de Los Mexicanos, across from Stan’s house.

The worst thing is that Craig is Clyde’s neighbor. Craig Tucker the Tweek Fucker is going to be my next door neighbor now. Not Butters. Maybe three years ago I would rather have Craig as my neighbor, but not anymore. The good thing about having Butters next door was that I could get into his house in secret. It didn’t have to be a huge spectacle. But now I’m gonna have to bike over.

“Get in the car, Eric,” Mom says.

I don’t. I scratch Mr. Kitty behind her ear instead.

It’s the end of June. It’ll be my thirteenth birthday in four days. I can’t even spend that in my old house. I stand in the doorway, staring at the emptiness of the interior. There are faded spots on the walls where picture frames used to be. We sold off and threw out our old furniture. The TV we sold. Clyde’s TV is nicer and higher tech than ours. He has one of those TVs that’s HD, and you can access YouTube and the Internet from it. The table and couch we threw onto the street. Kenny and his brother came by and took it back to their place though. I remember watching them in disgust as they hauled the couch I watched so many shows and movies on into the bed of Kevin’s truck. Indigent assholes.

I didn’t even keep my bed. We threw the mattresses out. We left the bed frames. All my clothes and toys and my Xbox One are packed away in boxes in a moving truck. My Switch is safe at Butters’ house. Mom and I get in the moving truck. Mr. Kitty naps on my lap. I watch as we pull out of the driveway and turn onto the street. My childhood home gets smaller and smaller until it’s blocked out of view by the other houses. It feels like leaving behind a piece of me.

Roger and Clyde are on their driveway to greet us. Roger kisses Mom when she gets out of the driver’s side. I stay in my seat with the seat belt across my chest. I stare out the windshield. Clyde looks just as sad as I feel. I’m going to live with him until Mom and Roger get divorced or Clyde or I move out.

Roger rounds the truck and I hear the back open. Mom raps her knuckles on my window. “Get out and put Mr. Kitty in your room. Come right back out here and help us bring the boxes into the house,” she tells me.

With a scowl, I undo my seat belt and kick open my door. Mr. Kitty wakes, and I hug her to my chest as I go into the house. The way up to my room has become a familiar one. Up the stairs, down the hall, the door to the left of Clyde’s. That pennant with my last name—Cartman, not Donovan—has been taped to the door since Mom and Roger’s engagement. I put it up as an act of defiance to say that when they get married, I’ll always refuse to be referred to as Eric Theodore _Donovan_. I will forever and always be called Cartman. Even if my mom is no longer Liane Cartman.

I open the door and Mr. Kitty jumps from my arms. She curls up at the foot of my bed. The room’s still untouched, even after two years of me staying here. I didn’t want to accept that I might move here one day. I tried to avoid leaving an imprint of me in case Mom changed her mind and we could up and leave and never come back. I was stupid to think that would ever happen.

“We can paint the walls if you want.”

I turn around and see Roger in the doorway, a box in his arms with another on top. They’re labeled “Eric.” My boxes with my stuff. I take them from him and put them in front of the closet.

“It’s too much work,” I mutter.

The walls are white and plain. Not like the purple walls my room used to be. I hated the color of those walls. Purple was so stupid.

“You don’t have to paint them. Your mom and I can do it if you really don’t like the white,” he says.

Clyde’s walls are grayish blue. “Did you paint Clyde’s room with Betsy?” I ask, a sharp tone to my voice.

But Roger doesn’t look hurt. Just lost in thought as he thinks back to the memory. “We did. That was years ago though. Before Clyde or Charlene were born.”

It occurs to me that this room could have been Charlene’s when she still lived here. “Was this Charlene’s room?” I wonder.

“It was. She told me before she went away that I could turn it into a spare bedroom. She even came down during breaks to help me redecorate,” Roger says. “Since she was studying interior design.”

That makes sense. The first time I came into this room, it was shockingly well decorated. The bed frame was the wrought iron type pressed up against the wall. The blankets and pillows were red. The window was behind the bed, the curtains also red. The dresser and desk were pale wood. I don’t get why there’s a dresser if there’s already a closet built into the room. The color came from the red and red is my favorite color. I hated that I didn’t hate the way the room looked.

I still don’t. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to change it.

“C’mon. Let’s go help out your mom and Clyde unload,” Roger says.

I follow him out, closing the door behind me so Mr. Kitty can’t escape. I lose track of how many trips we have to make. It’s a lot, and by the time we’re finished, it’s dark outside and there are boxes littering the living room. Somewhere in between it all, I could’ve sworn I saw Craig and his sister’s faces in the window a house over, watching us unload the truck. Or maybe I’m going delusional.

I’m collapsed on the couch, my phone in front of my face. Clyde’s at my feet, playing _Club Penguin_ on his laptop. Mom and Roger are cooking dinner in the kitchen. It smells good already.

Clyde breaks the silence by saying, “I can’t believe you’re gonna live here.”

I double tap on Craig’s photo of Tweek flipping off a Starbucks. Him and Craig were in Denver, for whatever reason. “I know right,” I mutter.

“Do you think that’s the reason why we switched off houses? So they could test where we should live when they got married?”

“Probably.”

Kenny’s icon is ringed by color. It’s a video of Kenny dabbing and then the camera switching away from selfie mode to show Karen dancing. There’s text at the top right about how Shelly and Scott finally broke up. Thank God. That stupid asshole Scott Tenorman was a bitch for Shelly anyway. I don’t even give a shit if he’s my half-brother. He’ll never be family. I prefer having Clyde as a stepbrother, and I’ll get it tattooed on my forehead if it means I don’t have to accept that Scott Tenorman is my half-brother. At least Clyde is cool. Shelly deserves someone more like Kevin, which I think is what Kenny and Karen are hinting at in his story.

“Is that the video of Kenny and Karen dancing about how Shelly and Scott broke up?” Clyde asks.

“Mhm. Finally.”

“Yeah. They were a weird match.”

“They _didn’t_ match, which is why they’re over and done with,” I correct.

“True.”

There’s more silence. And Clyde’s the one to break it again. “Is it stupid to say that you living here isn’t that bad? I mean, like, maybe it’s because I’m so used to it, but it doesn’t sound like torture.”

I look at him. Clyde’s always been the only one to say genuinely things to me. Aside from Butters. But Clyde isn’t my loyal lackey like Butters is. “Yeah,” I find myself agreeing. “I don’t think it’ll be so bad.”

Clyde holds out a fist, grinning. I roll my eyes, but I fist bump him still. “So, I’m guessing trying to break our parents up is off the table?” he says.

I sigh. “Yeah. Divorce is too much trouble, y’know?”

“Nah. But I get where you’re going.”

I snort. “Okay, Clyde.”

I return my attention to Instagram, checking my three accounts: personal, Creek, Style. Since Clyde and I both have control over the Creek account, he’s the one who’s been updating it lately. He’s the one with the first hand witness since Tweek and Craig are his close friends. When Tweek and Craig found out about the account, they laughed and followed it. Unlike Kyle and Stan, who are still bitter over it. Too bad for them. It’s what they deserve.

I lightly kick Clyde’s leg to get his attention. He looks at me. “Want access to the Style account?” I ask. I’ve been inactive as of lately, since, you know. Butters.

Clyde smiles from ear to ear. “Hell yes!” he exclaims. He takes out his phone and sets up. “Password?”

“Kylesadirtyjew in all lowercase and no underscores or whatever,” I say.

Clyde nods. “Should’ve seen that coming.”

I prop my head up with my hand. I stare at Clyde. He lost most of his baby fat in sixth grade when he and Stan got on Mala Vista’s football team. Sixth graders could've signed up for the middle school team, despite still being in elementary.

Clyde’s hair is one of his best assets, as I’ve heard from Tweek who heard it from Wendy, who Bebe originally told. I mean, I kind of hope so because he spends so much goddamn time messing with it. Every morning when we have to get ready for school, we share the upstairs bathroom. Clyde’s house has three. Two upstairs—one of them being in the master bedroom—and the other downstairs. My house only had one bathroom. But anyway. When I’m here, Clyde and I share the upstairs bathroom because neither of us want to have to go downstairs to wash up on school days. I’m brushing my teeth, watching him in the mirror run his gelled hands through his hair to make it look tousled. It’s annoying when he does that because he’s always in the way when I try to spit toothpaste foam into the sink. It was only until recently that I’ve found myself running my hands through my hair. Only I don’t use gel like a douche. I use water to try to flatten bedhead or waves that are particularly persistent.

Clyde’s the type of guy that’s dorky and obnoxious, but the kind of dorky and obnoxious that the girls fall head over heels for. Bebe, to be specific. This one time, I caught Clyde staring across the quad at Bebe with her friends. Bebe caught him too, and she dabbed. Clyde was clearly taken aback and impressed at the same time. They’re perfect for each other. If only they would just swallow their pride and date. Goddamn.

“I’m surprised Butters isn’t here.”

I blink at Clyde. “What?”

He shrugs at me. “I mean, you guys are, like, each other’s best friends. Not exactly Stan and Kyle level best friends, but you’ve gotten close this year.”

I feel myself blush. Desperate to save face, I spit, “I’m only friends with him out of pity. He’s a loser asshole whose only friend is Kenny.” I make fun of the way Butters talks, “ _Oh, gee, Eric. I’m sorry I’m such a loser. I’ll try to be better, really._ ”

Clyde snickers, and I oddly want to kick his teeth in for thinking it’s funny, even if I’m the one making fun of the lackey I make out with on a regular basis. “You shouldn’t say that about him, even if you’re faking being friends with him,” he says. His tone of voice tells me he doesn’t believe it that I’m faking my friendship with Butters. Whatever. As long as nobody figures out I kiss my lackey best friend, it’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You should take it as a compliment  
> That I got drunk and made fun of the way you talk..."  
> -Gorgeous


	11. Eric Cartman

**Eighth grade.**

Three weeks into eighth grade, September sixth, Butters is over. I’m lazily tasting lips I’ve grown so familiar and attached to. Butters is leaning over me, his hand curled up in my hair. He’s damp with sweat. His hair is plastered to his forehead, breathing heavily into my mouth. I have my arm circled around his waist, grinning at how I can make him do that. I skim my tongue past his teasingly.

Butters pulls away, breaking the kiss with a soft smack. “Alejandro” playing in the background comes flooding into my ears almost intrusively. Most things are drowned out when I make out with Butters. I tighten my hold on him, frowning at his perplexed expression. I open my mouth to ask what’s wrong, but he says, “Are we dating?” He twirls the drawstrings of my red Supreme hoodie around his finger. But he keeps his gaze pinned to me.

I freeze, gaping up at him. My cheeks heat up. “What?”

Butters stares me right in the eye. He repeats, punctuating his words the way I taught him, “Are we dating?”

I snap my teeth together. I toss my gaze over his shoulder at my empty desk. Butters and I have been making out for six months. We talk and laugh and spend time alone together. But me dating Butters means that I’m officially into guys. I don't know if I’m ready to accept that. I can find a way to justify kissing him, but not dating him. But then again, no one has to know.

My mind travels back to fifth grade, back to me swearing to never fall in love. Why? Because it makes you do things uncontrollably and turns you into someone else and you can’t go back. I shoot him a wary look as I say, “You do get that I could totally ruin you, right? If you were to be in a relationship with me, you might not be able to go back to who you were before. It happened to Heidi, but I don’t want that—”

“Then ruin me. Ruin my life. I’m willing to risk it,” Butters says.

Floored by his determined words, I muse, “Then y-yeah, sure. But we can’t tell anyone—”

Butters rolls his pale blue eyes. The eye roll freezes me again, but also makes my insides melt. “I know the drill,” he mutters. He puts his face back to mine and pecks at my lips. I deepen the kiss. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, but I suppose as long as it’s Butters, I don’t really care.

I break the kiss, sitting up. His eyes flutter open. I suggest, “Wanna do something? I’m starting to feel claustrophobic from being constantly hidden up in our rooms.”

“Okay. Where to?”

I grab my phone off the bedside table. We stand and leave my room. “We’ll just bike around.”

Downstairs, Clyde raises an eyebrow at us. A few weeks after moving in with him and Roger, Clyde stumbled in on me and Butters because I was careless. He swore to never tell anyone. He’s been doing good so far.

I open the door and Butters leaves. To Clyde I say, “If Mom or Roger ask where I am, tell them I’m studying with Butters.”

“Studying. _Right._ ” Clyde winks at me. I roll my eyes and leave the house with a slam of the door.

Butters and I have to bike to each other’s houses. It’s faster that way instead of walking. I take my bike from the garage. Butters is already on his, one foot on the pedal, the other on the concrete. I swing my leg over my bike and put up the kickstand. “Ready?” I ask.

He nods.

We bike past the community center. To think, it was only five months ago when Mom and Roger had their reception there. We pass city hall and soon the movie theater. In Tweek Bros, I see Tweek and Craig through the windows helping around. I pedal faster when we pass the coffee shop. I don’t want them to see me. We end up at the U-Stor-It, where Professor Chaos’s lair resides.

We drop our bikes in front of Dougie’s grandma’s unit.  “Now what?” Butters asks. “I kinda wanted a hot cocoa from Tweek Bros.”

“Later,” I say. Not too far off is a dumpster pressed up against the side of the unit. I make my way over to it. Butters follows. I climb on top of it, and we end up standing on the roof of the unit.

I stare up at the sky. The sun’s sinking below the mountains, casting a purple glow in the clouds. The horizon is pink. Behind us, the sky is deep blue. And right where we stand, it’s soft violet. Twilight would be pretty if not for stupid sparkly vampires defiling the word.

Butters' shoulder bumps mine. “The sky’s kinda the color of your eye. Right there.” He points up, to the overlap of purple and deep blue.

I give him a skeptical look. He grins at me. “I’m serious!”

“If you say so,” I mutter. I sit down on the roof, and Butters lowers himself beside me. He takes my hand in his, and I stare at our intertwined fingers. “You’re turning fourteen in five days.”

Butters keeps his head tilted up at the sky. “Yep.”

“No, B-Butts. You’re not getting my point. I just turned thirteen! I can’t believe we’re the same age for only, like, three months. It’s totally unfair. Most kids born in September are the youngest. Not you though, apparently. And Stan too! It’s bullshit.”

“It’s the school cut off.”

“I know. But at least you’ll die first.”

He fixes me with a cool glare that only makes me grin. “Eric!”

I roll my eyes. “I’m kidding. I’m probably gonna die first because of all the health issues I’ll develop ‘cause I’m so fat.”

He frowns at me. “Eric, stop talkin’ like that. For one, you lost a lotta weight. You look good! And I don’t want you to die.” He puts his head on my shoulder.

I put my head on his. “Then you’re the first.”

He lets go of my hand to swat me. “Stop it!”

I laugh. “Did you know Kenny dies all the time but he just comes back to life because he’s immortal?” In third grade, I got a corneal transplant with Kenny’s eyes because I didn’t want to have to wear glasses. My eyes stayed brown, because only the cornea is used and not the entire eye, until Kenny died during that time Jakovasaurs were in South Park. The next morning when he came back, I had looked in the mirror as I was brushing my teeth, and I saw that my right iris had changed to a shade similar to Kenny’s. Since that death, I started to remember all of Kenny’s deaths, and previous ones too.

“Eric, you know the fellas and I don’t like it when you and Kenny make those jokes. It ain’t funny.”

“Who said it was a joke?”

Butters glares at me again. I sigh dejectedly. It was worth a shot. Nobody except Kenny knows why I suddenly got heterochromia back in elementary. But since I’m the only one who can remember his deaths, they've become sort of an inside joke between us.

“Um, Eric?” Butters says. I turn to him. He’s sat forward now, his chin on his knees, arms around his legs.

“What?”

“Are… Well, we’re datin’ now and stuff, but are you, like, gay?”

I blink at him. I shift uncomfortably. I cough into my fist. “I mean, I like you. And you convinced me in fourth grade that girls suck.” Butters chuckles. “So I guess I am. What about you?”

He shrugs. “Oh, I’m probably bisexual.”

I gape. “No,” I say.

He shoots me a confused look. “No?”

“No fucking way. You’re into girls? And I’m not? That’s unfair!”

Butters’ expression turns unamused. “Eric, me likin’ girls and you not doesn’t make me more masculine if that’s what you’re worried about.”

My shoulders fall. Wow. He really saw right through me.

He continues, “I mean, look at Tweek. He boxes and he likes boys. It doesn’t make him less manly.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, blushing. I mutter, “I know it doesn’t make me less masculine. I just don’t want you leave me for some chick with big tits and a vagina.”

Butters laughs, doubling over. His scar crinkles with his smile. He falls onto his back, his face up to the sky. “Eric,” he coos. “We just got together, and we technically have been since seventh grade! I won’t leave you for some girl, no matter how beautiful.”

I roll my eyes to suppress the urge to tackle him and kiss his face. Why does it feel so good to know that he won’t abandon me? And why does it feel so good to have him say it out loud?

“Promise?” I whisper. I hold up my pinkie, and he links his with mine.

Then he reaches up and hooks his arms around my neck, bringing my face down to his. Close enough that the only thing I can see are his eyes and the only air I’m breathing is his. His ice blue eyes search mine. The blue of his left eye is like cracks in thin ice exposing the water underneath. It’s all Kenny’s fault he’s half blind. Well, more like a fourth blind. We just call his eye blind. He can still sort of see with it, since he got transplants and surgery after the accident. He says some parts of his vision are dark, but not all of it.

He whispers back, “I promise you, Eric.”

As I suck in a breath at his words, he presses his lips to mine. The world is a hazy blur. I can’t even close my eyes all the way. I stare at his dark eyelashes on his cheeks. Most blondes like Tweek and Kenny have eyelashes the color of their hair. Not Butters. His are dark and bring out the pale of his eyes.

He breaks first, sitting up.

I sit up with him, letting him lean on me. “Do you still have that Mysterion wall in the unit?” I wonder.

“Yeah,” he says.

I bristle at that. “Why? You know his identity. It’s useless now. Just take it down,” I say.

He smirks at me, amusement in his eyes. “Are you jealous, Eric?” he teases.

I push his face away to disguise my red face. “No. It’s just dumb.”

He takes my hand off his face. “Okay, Eric.”

We sit on the roof for another twenty minutes, watching the sun go down. When it’s gone, we hop off the roof and bike around the U-Stor-It. Some people in their units give us weird looks. We end up biking back to Tweek Bros, eight minutes before it closes.

We drop our bikes on the sidewalk and hurry inside. We’re laughing, and I don’t remember why. My laughter dies when we get to the counter and Tweek’s standing behind the register, watching us.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

The place is empty save for Craig cleaning one of the tables. Music murmurs from speakers above. I see how Craig and Tweek trade a look. I pretend I don’t notice it. “I’ll have a medium peach tea.”

“Iced, or...?” Tweek says.

“No. Hot,” I say. I nudge Butters.

“Hot cocoa. Small, please,” he says, bouncing on his toes. I roll my eyes at him.

Tweek punches in our orders. “Are you together or no?” he says.

I gape at him, my face aflame. “Huh?” My voice cracks.

Butters next to me even goes rigid.

Tweek turns his palm to the ceiling, giving us _Really?_ looks. “Are you paying separately or together?” he repeats.

I lick my lips, internally cringing at myself. “Separately. Don’t be a dumbass, Tweek. I’m not paying for him.” I jab a thumb at Butters.

Tweek screws his lips to the side, staring at the register in front of him. “Three-fifty, Butters. Five, Cartman,” he says. Butters and I fish out our wallets.

Craig goes behind the counter and picks up a medium sized cup and a small. He starts filling them.

Tweek takes our money. “Receipt?”

I say “No” at the same time Butters says, “Yes please.”

I follow Butters as he sits at a table. I take my phone from my pocket and distract myself with it. Butters swings his feet back and forth, and he nudges my foot a few times with his Converse. I glare at him whenever he does, but he keeps doing it.

“What?” I finally hiss.

Butters’ eyes flick over to the counter where Tweek and Craig are smiling and giggling and whispering at each other as they prepare our drinks. Craig kisses Tweek’s nose and it’s so open and free that it makes me sick. Sick and a little sad. I wonder if maybe one day I can kiss Butters in front of people without being so scared to.

Craig takes our drinks to us, placing the respective cups in front of us. I immediately sip at my tea to avoid conversation. Craig doesn’t try for talk, returning to Tweek at the counter. The music gets a little bit louder. Tweek starts singing and Craig joins him.

It suddenly occurs to me that I should record the encounter for the fan page. I switch from Twitter to Instagram, where I subtly film them singing together, trying to make it as inconspicuous as I can. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Butters roll his eyes. I grin at the action.

A while later, Butters and I leave the coffee shop. Butters waves at them as he goes through the door. “Bye, fellas! Thanks for letting us stay past closin’ time.”

Tweek and Craig wave back. “See you tomorrow,” Tweek says.

On Butters’ street, he gets off his bike and rolls it into the garage. He says what I’ve been thinking since we were at Tweek Bros: “We’ll never be like Tweek and Craig, huh? So comfortable with kissin’ and stuff.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, keeping my eyes on my black Converse. I mumble, “Probably not.”

Butters gives me a weak smile. “See you at school, Eric,” he says. Then he disappears into the garage.

As I’m biking home, it occurs to me that Craig would’ve kissed Tweek goodbye, but like Butters said, we’ll never be like them. I’ll never be able to kiss him goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I want you to ruin my life..."  
> -Ruin My Life


	12. Butters Stotch

**Eighth grade.**

When my friends asked me what I got for my birthday last month, I told them. They gave me bewildered looks.

“You asked for _room decor_?” Kyle’d said in disbelief.

Eric’s hand was in mine under the table. I felt his hand twitch at Kyle’s remark, and I squeezed his hand to quiet him as I answered Kyle, “I told my parents I wanted to redecorate my room, and they gave me the stuff I asked for.”

“You could’ve asked for a PS4 or something instead,” Stan muttered as he raised his forkful of salad to his mouth.

I’d shrugged. I didn’t care if what they thought I got for my birthday was weird. It’s my room that I’m gonna redo. I’m not asking them to do it.

Now it’s Thanksgiving break. I decided when I opened my birthday gifts that I would redecorate my room during the break. And the time’s finally come.

I start by stripping my bed of its old blankets and pillowcases. I toss them onto the floor, where they land in a heap. I stand on my bed, stretching up for the rod above the window. When it falls, I pick it up and remove the old purple curtains. I replace them with the white ones. I just don’t know how I’m gonna get it back up onto the rod. I hate being short. I used to be one of the tallest boys in fourth grade, next to Craig. But then he kept growing and I slowed down, and now Tweek’s a few inches taller than me! He used to be the shortest!

Oh well. I’ll figure out a way to get the rod back up later. I take my new white comforter from its plastic bag and start fixing my bed. I tuck in the corners and fluff the pillows.

All that’s left is a few old toys I wanna give away and the fairy lights I need help stringing up. I asked for fairy lights because they’re pretty. They remind me of fireflies.

Suddenly, my door swings open and a roar follows. I scream back, flinching and covering my hands with my face. There’s laughter and I peek through my fingers. Eric stands there laughing, holding his stomach.

“That was great,” he says.

I drop my hands and frown at him. “It ain’t funny, Eric! I thought someone broke in to kill me!”

He snorts at me and surveys the room. “So you’re finally getting to it, huh?” he says.

I nod, rubbing my knuckles together. “Yeah. I need help puttin’ the curtains back up though. And the fairy lights.” I give Eric a sidelong look, trying to silently ask him to help me.

He double takes, then sighs and tilts his head back. “Fine. I’ll help you.”

I brighten with a grin.

Eric rolls the desk chair under the window. “I’ll hold it.”

I step onto the chair, the rod in hand. At this height, I can easily reach the hooks above the window. “I dunno why I didn’t think of this before,” I tell him.

“Because you’re a dumbass.”

I glare at him.

He gives me a shit-eating grin. “You should take it as a compliment,” he says.

I playfully flick his forehead.

Once we finish the second window, I unravel the fairy lights from its box. Eric lays down on the clump of old blankets and pillows, fiddling with his phone. These lights are the kind that need batteries to turn on. I had gotten a few batteries from downstairs this morning. Mom and Dad were already at work.

I put in the batteries and flip the little switch to make sure it works. The string of lights blink on. Eric stares at it. “Where are you gonna put it?” he asks.

I sweep an arm over the left side of the room. “Above the windows,” I say.

“What are you gonna use to put it up?”

“Thumbtacks. I need your help again,” I say. I have a few tacks already above the window I can reach from my bed. I arrange the lights on the first five I can reach. But the other window on the left side of the room is harder to get to.

Eric groans. “You’re killing me, B-Butts.” Still, he gets to his feet.

“I can reach it better if I’m on your shoulders,” I say.

Eric sits on the bed and I throw my legs over his shoulders. I grab his head with my free hand for support. “Get up _slowly_ and hand me thumbtacks,” I instruct.

Eric does as I say, though he wobbles once he’s on his feet. His hands tighten on my ankles, and I yelp, gripping his hair to keep from falling. He winces, “Jesus, ow!”

I loosen my hold, patting his head. “Sorry,” I mumble. For good measure, I lean down and kiss his forehead.

He inches over towards the left window.

“Thumbtack,” I say.

He gives me one. I push in each thumbtack an even space apart. Then I continue the string of fairy lights. By the time we’re finished, my little corner around my bed sparkles with light.

“Can I put you down now? My shoulders are starting to hurt,” Eric says.

“Oh yeah.”

He drops me unceremoniously on the bed. My head misses the wall by an inch. Eric chuckles at the angry look I give him. He jumps onto the bed next to me and throws an arm around my waist.

“That it?” he asks, his voice muffled by my blankets.

I scrutinize my room. The walls are still turquoise, the floors still brown. Only the curtains are white and so’s my bed sheets. And of course, the fairy lights hanging from the two windows. On the wall parallel to the door, the switch to the lights hangs under the curtains. I turn off the lights to save battery. I’ll turn them back on when it’s darker.

“I want to clean up a bit. Then add things to my shelf,” I say.

There are two shelves above my bed. I used to keep toys on there, but now it’s empty. It has been for a while. I’d asked Dad for a trash bag last night so I could put all the toys I don’t want anymore in it. I don’t really play with toys anymore. Most of the time, I’m on my phone or studying or with Eric. I toss in a few old books. I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging next to the door. I can see my bed and the lights, and Eric on his phone. I check my drawer just in case because I used to put the toys I didn’t feel like properly putting away in there. To this day when I’m searching for clothes, I’ll find a few stray toys.

Under my folded shirts is the Nintendo Switch, where I hide it from my parents. I don’t want them to take away something that doesn’t even belong to me. I riffle through my clothes. My fingers hit something and I take it out.

It’s an old picture frame with a photo of my ex girlfriend Charlotte. I wince, frantically searching for a place to hide it. I don’t wanna know how Eric’ll react if he sees it.

“What is it?” Eric asks.

I do the first thing I think of: hiding the frame behind my back and blurt, “Nothin’.”

Eric looks at me suspiciously. He gets up and walks over to me. I keep backing up until my heels hit the wall. Oh hamburgers. Eric’s hand darts behind my back and takes the frame from me. I watch as his face contorts into anger.

“Why do you still have this?” he snaps.

“I don’t know!” I say.

“Do you still like her?”

“No, of course not! That was four years ago! I barely remember her!” I say.

Eric doesn’t look convinced, even though I’m telling the truth. “Then why do you still have this?” he demands.

“I just found it!” I retort.

His expression falls for a second, slipping into embarrassment, but he quickly covers it up with an annoyed glint in his eye. “Why the fuck didn’t you say that in the first place?” He shoves the frame to my chest.

I put the frame face down on my desk, making a mental note to throw the photo out later. Under my desk, I pull out a box filled with mason jars. They’re different sizes. Some are tall. Some are short. Some are apple-shaped. When I get grounded, my phone gets taken from me, as well as TV and computer privileges, so I end up drawing or making stuff. I got grounded earlier this month for two days because I got a sixty percent on my math test. After I studied like my parents told me to, I took one of my empty jars and made a snow globe out of it. Three other jars are mini terrariums. I have two empty jars, and for that, I plan on filling it with the small fairy lights I got for my birthday. I stuff in the lights, screw on the lid, then stand on my bed and arrange the jars on the first shelf.

Eric stares up at me, bewildered. “What are _those_ for?” he asks incredulously.

I stare at the jars, shifting one of them to the smooth side of the glass. “I’ve always wanted to catch fireflies. I dunno why. But obviously I can’t since we don’t get the glowy fireflies here in Colorado. So this is a substitute. And at least these don’t die.” I tap the glass. “At least not permanently.” I turn and point to the four other jars in the box. “Can you hand me those please?”

He hands me the jars, two by two. “You are so. Fucking. Weird,” he mutters.

I laugh. “I know.”

Somewhere in between it all, Eric comes in and out of my room, carrying heaps of blankets and pillows and dumping them on the floor. I don’t notice until he starts pushing the bedside table further from my bed. He rolls out the desk chair too.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“Blanket fort. Right here, right now,” he says. His tongue pokes out of his mouth as he drapes the first blanket from my bedpost to the bedside table.

“Oh!” I exclaim. “We can pin up some rope or something across the room so the blankets can be taller!”

Eric grins at me. “Good thinking.”

I get Dad’s spare rope he doesn’t use and unravel it from one wall to the opposite. I use extra thumbtacks to pin up the rope. I help Eric add blankets, tucking them behind my dresser and over the desk chair. I keep adding more rope where it’s needed, and by the time we’re finished, the fort takes up half of my room. There’s bed sheets in front of the fort entrance, a wall of pillows lining the edge.

Eric crawls through the entrance of the fort, my pillow tucked under his arm. “Get your ass in here, and bring the Switch,” he says, already disappeared under the blankets.

“Okay, hang on.”

I grab a Sharpie from my desk and flip over the empty box I kept my jars in. I write, “DO NOT ENTER” across the front. I situate it on top of the fort, and it stays up without bringing the whole thing down because of the web of rope we used to keep it up.

“B-Butts!” Eric says impatiently.

“Hang on. It’s missing something,” I say.

I study the fort, dark in the middle of the room. The sun’s dipping behind the mountains now. Then it comes to me. I switch off the lights and turn on the fairy lights. Mom and Dad got me two kinds of lights for my birthday. The small sparkly lights, and the type that has glowing orbs. I take the string of orbs, add batteries, turn it on, then toss it around the box on top of the fort and over the pillow wall at the entrance.

My whole room glows golden in the fairy lights. I smile to myself, a giddy excitement pumping through my veins. I grab the Switch from my dresser. “Have you seen my phone?” I ask Eric, scanning the floor.

From inside the fort, he says, “Yeah. I have it here.”

So I dive into the fort.

Eric found four flashlights in the garage, and all of them are on, lighting up the inside of the fort. I crawl into Eric’s arms, putting my head on his shoulder. The floor’s layered with blankets and pillows and it’s real comfy. But Eric’s also real comfy. I trade him the Switch for my phone. I check it, seeing that he changed my ringtone again. This time to the Krusty Krab remix. Eric’s always changing my ringtone and I let him, otherwise my ringtone would be the one given.

His arm snakes around my waist as he says into my hair, “Don’t ever take down this fort until we’re bored of it, you hear me? And if your parents tell you to take it down, tell them you can’t because you promised me.”

“But, Eric, you know how they don’t really like it how I hang out with you,” I tell him. Ever since that incident that got me sent to camp in fourth grade, they’ve been wary of Eric being around me. They think he’s a bad influence.

Eric snorts. “So what? If they have a problem with me then can confront me or my mom or whatever. Just don’t take it down,” he says. He takes my wrist and wraps his pinkie around mine. "It's a pinkie promise. So now you can't break it."

I look up at him. “How will I get to my bed?”

“Go through those blankets.” He points to the wall of blankets to our right. “Or, better yet, just sleep in here. Maybe one of these days I can convince my mom to let me stay over.” The light in his eyes talking about it makes my heart do flips.

“Why not today?” I ask. I like the weight of his arm around me, and the way his fingertips press into the pocket of my pajama pants.

He rolls his eyes. “Because were going out to dinner tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” he says.

“Oh. Okay,” I say. “What time do you have to go to dinner?”

“Six.”

The time on my phone reads 4:23 p.m. “We still have a few hours,” I say.

“Sweet.”

Music suddenly comes from Eric’s phone. He sings along after emphasizing the “shit,” only stopping to tell me, “I connect to this song on a spiritual level.”

I tilt my head to the side. “How?”

Eric sighs disappointedly. He belts out, “ _They say I did something bad, then why’s it feel so good?_ ”

I giggle. “I guess so. I didn’t know you like Taylor Swift.” Bebe’s the one with the reputation of the mega Taylor Swift fan.

Eric shrugs under my cheek. “I’m indifferent. The album’s good, but Lady Gaga’s better.”

I hum in contentment, allowing my eyes to close. I soak in the feeling of the music and Eric and the golden glow behind my eyelids from the fairy lights. Eric’s warm beneath my fingertips. Maybe a little too warm because he sits up and takes off his black Cheesy Poofs hoodie. He tosses it aside and lays back down, continuing to scroll through Instagram. I stare at his discarded hoodie on his other side. It’s cliche to wear your boyfriend’s hoodie, but it just sounds so appealing. I reach across Eric and grab his hoodie. I pull it over my head. It’s huge, but I knew that already. The sleeves hang over my hands, and the torso pools around me.

But it smells like him.

Eric snorts and I look at him. He’s got an amused expression on his face as he looks at _me_. He doesn’t say anything as he sits up again and his phone slips from his hand. He just smirks deviously as he takes the drawstrings from the hood and uses them to pull me in. He pulls me in to kiss me roughly. He breaks and scurries out of the fort. And I’m left there, lips tingling, dumbfounded.

At five, my top half is out of the fort, my bottom half in. I prop myself up with my elbows, coloring in a sunset the exact shade of Eric’s right eye. There’s a silhouette of a landscape at the bottom of the page, but I wanna emphasize the sky. I have a variety of doodles and drawings in my notebook. A common inspiration is Eric, even before we got together. Some of it’s Kenny and his gap-toothed smile. Some of it’s people made up but inspired by my friends.

“I can’t believe they got me a fucking Polaroid. It’s so gay,” Eric mutters. I lift my eyes up to him. He’s sitting against the door, messing with the white Polaroid camera his parents got him for his birthday this year. Eric’s got a real talent in photography. Even his parents see it. Sometimes, Eric’ll take a picture of the horizon or something for me, and I’ll draw it out on paper. I give him the drawing, and he gives me the picture.

“It ain’t gay, Eric,” I say. “How can a camera be gay?”

He shrugs. He inspects me, and his eyes suddenly light up the way they do when he finds a pretty thing to take a picture of. “Don’t fucking move. Look back down at your notebook.” I do as he says. “Okay. Hold still.”

There’s the shutter of the Polaroid, a low buzz as the camera spits out the picture, and then another shutter, only a flash of light accompanies this one. Eric scoots over to me, asking, “Which one do you like better?”

He flourishes the two Polaroids. They’re real similar, only one’s brighter than the other. They’re both of me in Eric’s hoodie lying on my stomach in front of the fort with my notebook. The DO NOT ENTER box is in the shot, as well as the lights around it and the lights on the walls too. Only, the one taken without the flash makes the light in the picture hazy golden. The second one is the same, but that magical golden haziness isn’t there.

I lean my back against his chest. I point to the first one, without the flash. “This one.”

“Why?” The word is spoken next to my ear. He doesn’t ask it like he disagrees with me. He asks it like a teacher who wants to push your thinking further.

“Well, because it has the golden haze the one with the flash doesn’t,” I tell him, swirling my finger around the blur of light.

I feel him smile. He presses a kiss to my cheek, and he holds it there, allowing me to feel weak as I melt right into his lap. He snickers down at me as he bends his neck to let his lips continue making contact with my skin.

I close my eyes, feeling Eric’s butterfly kisses. I’ve never felt so blissful.


	13. Butters Stotch

**Freshman year.**

A year. That’s how long we’ve been together. It’s been a year since I broke that kiss to ask Eric if we were dating. It’s been a year since he’d said yes. For the both of us, it’s been the longest relationship we’ve ever been in. We sit on the roof of Dougie’s grandma’s storage unit at the U-Stor-It. It’s become a regular spot for us to go ever since that day. Aside from the old drive-in, the U-Stor-It is the only place we can go to without anyone being around to figure us out.

I send a smile his way. I don’t understand why people think Eric is such a sadistic narcissist. Sure, he has his faults and flaws, but under that mask he created to protect himself, he’s a dork who dances around his room to “Born This Way,” shouting the words. He doesn’t get off to seeing people bleed because he’d pushed them down, and maybe he’s a little self-centered, but he doesn’t kiss the mirror before he goes to bed every night. Memorizing Eric Cartman is easy, if only people would take the time to.

I lean into his side. His arm twists around my waist. “This is a really lame way to celebrate a year of tolerating each other’s bullshit,” he says.

“Well then, how’re we s’posed to do it?” I ask. We’ve been sitting on the roof for fifteen minutes, staring up at the sky and talking about nothing. But mostly making out.

Eric shrugs. “The hell if I know. Usually chicks make a big fucking deal out of it, and either way, I’ve never been in a relationship this long.” He casts his eyes on me.

I blink. “And you think I have? Yeah right, Eric.” I push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He got them the last week of eighth grade—and finally, because he’s been needing glasses since the middle of seventh grade. He looks so handsome in glasses. The kind that’s black plastic on top, golden wire on the bottom. Eric turns his head, letting my finger fall to my lap.

“Race you,” Eric blurts, shooting to his feet and running across the roof of the storage unit.

I scramble to my own feet, racing after Eric, who’s already on the dumpster. “Hey, not fair!” I object.

By the time I jump onto the ground, Eric’s already on his bike, smirking. “Ha ha. I win. You owe me.”

I roll my eyes, walking over to him. “And what do I owe you, asshole?”

Eric hums, thinking it over. I jump onto my own bike as he starts pedaling around the storage unit.

“I know what you owe me,” he says finally.

“Okay. What?”

“A pizza and a chocolate milkshake from Shakey’s.”

I sigh. “Fine. But only ‘cause you’re bein’ a meanie today,” I say.

At Shakey’s, we sit at a table, a pepperoni pizza and chocolate milkshake between us. Eric was generous enough to share some with me. He still looks smug, tipping the chair on its back legs with his hands behind his head. I flick a piece of pepperoni at him.

“Stop pouting,” he drawls.

“Stop lookin’ smug,” I shoot back.

Eric continues smirking and looking smug. Then he throws his head back laughing. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

I stick my tongue out at him, and he sticks his out back. Against my better judgement, my face splits into another grin. “Wanna go back to the fort?” I ask, my tone of voice light.

Eric sits up, the chair thumping as all four legs hit the floor. His face is bright as he puts his hands on the table and leans in close. His eyes sparkle as he whispers, “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.”

I want to grab his face and kiss him _so badly,_ but there are people around us. People who know us, people who’ve heard of us, and people who know my parents. So instead we stand from the table and back to our bikes locked up on the bike rack. We ride back to my street.

We’re two houses down when there’s a call: “Cartman! There you are!”

Eric brakes and turns his head. I slow to a stop beside him. Stan’s standing in his doorway, looking out at us. Kyle and Kenny stand behind him in the house.

“Sup, Leo,” Kenny says.

I wave at him.

“Where have you been?” Kyle asks, directing the question at Eric.

“What does it matter to you?” Eric snaps.

Kyle sneers. “What matters is that we all agreed to meet here at four so we can go to the movies at _five_. It’s four forty-six!” he exclaims.

“Oh,” says Eric. “Well why’d you wait for me? You never did before. It’s your fault you didn’t have the common sense to leave sooner.”

Kyle bristles, and Stan puts a hand on his chest to hold him back. “I mean, he’s not wrong, dude. We _could’ve_ left sooner and met him at the theater,” he reasons.

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Are you forgetting _why_ we planned on going _today_? There’s a deal at the theater that if you’re in a group of four, tickets cost two dollars in total! Tickets cost fifty cents today! _But_ the deal started at four thirty and only applies to the first twenty people, and now it’s sixteen minutes later, and they’re probably all sold out.”

“Yeah, it would’ve been ideal to get there sooner,” Kenny says. He makes eye contact with me and shrugs. “Tough luck, huh?”

I smile.

Eric throws up his hands, just as angry as Kyle now. “It’s not my fault I forgot and you guys don’t think rationally!” he says.

“I texted you _five times_ ,” Kyle barks.

“Well Jesus fucking Christ, Kyle! Maybe if we didn’t waste time arguing here, we could be heading over to the theater to see if they still have tickets!” Eric fires back.

Kyle looks like he wants to push Stan aside and strangle Eric, but Stan keeps a firm hold on his super best friend, and Kenny even has a hand on Kyle’s arm. Kyle’s eyes flick to me, then back to Eric. He huffs and mutters at Stan and Kenny, “Let me go.”

He picks up his bike discarded on the lawn and starts biking in the direction of the movie theater. Stan quickly follows after him, shouting after him to “Wait, Kyle!”

Kenny closes the door behind him, shaking his head. He picks up his bike. “You can come along, Leo. I’ll pay for you,” he says. His eyes are so vibrantly violet in the sun and his hair is golden rustling in the soft wind.

Eric mutters, “Ugh, gay” as he bikes past me, after Kyle and Stan.

I gnaw on my bottom lip. Kenny jerks his head after Eric. “Shall we?”

I smile down at my handlebars. “Thanks, Ken,” I say.

Together, we bike after the three to the movie theater. In the theater, I sit at the end, next to Kenny. Eric’s on Kenny’s other side, then Stan separating Kyle from Eric. Kenny and I share a bucket of popcorn, whispering to each other during the previews. Kenny makes comments about them, and some make me laugh. It’s during one of these jokes of Kenny’s that I see Eric over Kenny’s shoulder shift in his seat, scowling at the screen.

It suddenly occurs to me that it’s still our one year anniversary. And here I am laughing with Kenny in a dark movie theater. I wonder what this would look like if we were more like Tweek and Craig. If we were, Eric and I would probably be sitting next to each other, whispering and laughing. We would be holding hands over the armrest. He would kiss my face. He wouldn’t care if there were people around us. And I wouldn’t be afraid of witnesses snitching to my parents.

I feel my smile fade off my face as I realize the reality of it all. We’ll never hold hands over the armrest. He’ll never kiss my face and not care if people are watching. I’ll never get over the constant fear of my parents finding out about us. My knuckles knock together. My eyes stare at the movie screen. The theater grows darker as the movie starts.

 

Some things worked out in the end. We bike back to my house, Eric grumbling vulgar things about Kenny that I scold him for. We run up to my room. We put the fort back up on Wednesday night. It’s mostly the same. The box is still there, and so are the lights. I’ve been sleeping inside it since getting to my bed’s a hassle. I crawl in first so I can tunnel my way to my bed to turn on the fairy lights. They make the room dark orange. I carefully edge my way back into the fort, laying down on my back, staring up with Eric next to me.

This time, we hung up some Polaroids on the ropes supporting the mass of blankets. We still have a hoard of flashlights in here so it’s not completely dark. We have the Switch and our phones. I feel Eric’s fingers slide into the spaces between mine.

“That movie sucked,” he says.

“I thought it was good.”

“Your judgement is wack.”

I let out a honk of laughter. “That’s mean!”

He chuckles, rolling onto his side to face me. Anticipation washes over me as I watch him stare at my mouth. The golden light reflects off his glasses. I take them off his face, letting him float in his stupor. I slide his glasses onto my nose, and I wait for him. Eric’s vision is bad. The glasses make my vision blurry, and his prescription kinda makes my head hurt. Eric was real upset when the eye doctor told him he needed glasses again, Clyde told me. He told me Eric was ranting about how his mom had spent so much money on his corneal transplant, only for his eyes to go back to shit six years later.

The anticipation grows unbearable and makes it harder to lay still. I start fidgeting impatiently. My movement makes him snap out of it. Then he’s on me, kissing me aggressively. It’s the type of kiss that leaves you breathless as your heart speeds up and your face flushes. I run my fingers through his hair, taking off his hat in the process. It’s not the same one he had as a kid, but it might as well be. It’s identical to the old one. Eric pulls off my scarf, the one I forgot at Charlene’s apartment. I got it back a few weeks later.

Eric nips and sucks on my lips. It’s enough for me to grip his hair and let out a whimpering moan. He kisses me harder, and I reciprocate desperately. His hands are all over me, fleeting and caressing and burning. I imagine his handprints glowing on my skin.

Against my mouth, he murmurs, “Kenny, that motherfucker.”

“Don’t say that, Eric. He’s your friend,” I say, gasping for air. It’s his air, the air he’s breathing into me.

He presses another bruising kiss to my lips. “You’re mine,” he whispers.

“Mhm,” is all I can muster, getting lost too quickly in him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Memorizing him was as  
> Easy as knowing all the words to your old favorite song..."  
> -Red


	14. Eric Cartman

**Freshman year.**

Butters’ fifteenth birthday. I’m more excited than him. We’re going to Casa Bonita with all our friends. I love the place, almost to a hysterical degree. Butters’ parents let me stay over the night before, but Butters only knew they allowed it because they said nothing to him when I came in through the front door for once with my backpack. We slept in the fort, falling asleep with his dumb fairy lights on. It was cool.

Now it’s officially his birthday. After school, instead of boarding the bus, him and me and Kenny and Kyle and Stan squeeze into Butters’ dad’s car. Since the car only sits five, the fit’s tight. Butters’ thigh is pressed against mine, and I’m thinking about that the whole drive to Casa Bonita.

The ride to Casa Bonita feels longer than it should be. I’m eager to get out of the cramped car. The car isn’t at a complete stop when I throw open the door and jump onto the asphalt. “Hurry up, assholes,” I urge.

Once we’re all out of the car, Stephen says to Butters, “I’ll pick you up at eight.” And then he rolls up the window and drives off.

Not a goodbye, not a “Happy Birthday,” and most certainly not an “I love you.”

Butters shrugs it off like he always does and follows me and the guys into Casa Bonita.

Inside, Butters pays to get in with the credit card his dad lent him.

“We should probably find a table to put all our stuff,” Kyle says. “And then tell Craig and Those Guys so they know.”

He leads the way to the biggest available table. We push in three extra chairs so the table can sit ten people.

At first, we started off as a group when Craig and Those Guys arrived, but somehow after an hour, we end up split up. I’m alone with Butters behind the waterfall.

I have him pressed up against the wall. I stare intently at his face, but my eyes were unfocused as I stroke his cheek absentmindedly. Butters leans into my hand. I’m unable to give him a response. The sound of burbling water drowns out the laughter and chatter of the people in the restaurant.

Then I’m a breath away, our noses brushing. I hear his breathing catch in his throat. I see how he watches me gulp. I finally focus on his eyes. He tilts his head ever so slightly, bumping our noses. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, tugging me closer.

I grin, just a corner of my mouth shooting up. I settle my hands on his waist. Finally, I connect with him. Sweet and soft. Enough to make him slump into me.

My lips leave his, my face pressing into his neck. I pull him close, holding him tight. “You’re fifteen now, you asshole,” I say. My voice is muffled.

Butters laughs. “Gee, Eric. I’m awful sorry. Let me just go back in time and become fourteen again,” he jokes.

I lift my head to raise an eyebrow at him. “You understand sarcasm?”

“No thanks to you.”

I nod in approval, running my thumb over his bottom lip. Then I smirk and kiss him one last time before running off back the way we came, cackling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Put your lips close to mine  
> As long as they don't touch  
> Out of focus, eye to eye  
> Till the gravity's too much..."  
> -Treacherous


	15. Eric Cartman

**Freshman year.**

Finally. It’s Christmas _finally._ I wake up at eight, early for me on weekends and breaks. I barge into Clyde’s room, flicking on the lights. Huddled up under his covers, he groans. “Five more minutes,” he whines.

“No, Clyde,” I say, walking over to his bedside. “Because it’s CHRISTMAS!” I rip off his blankets.

Clyde wraps his arms around his torso. I silently thank Jesus that he’s actually wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt this time. On his birthday earlier this year, I threw off his blankets and was disturbed to see him curled up in fetal position in nothing but his dinosaur boxers.

Clyde covers his face with his arm. “Turn off the lights,” he croaks.

I grab his ankles. “Clyde, look,” I say as I start pulling him off his bed, “this isn’t our first Christmas together. It’s the same every year. I wake up early, and so I wake up everyone else early so we can open presents. Now do I need to drag you into Mom’s and Roger’s room and then downstairs, or can you do it yourself this time?”

Clyde just groans again in response.

“Okay, fine. You brought this on yourself,” I mutter.

I yank him off the bed, and his head hits the floor with a thunk. “Ow,” he mutters.

I drag him out of his room. “Your fault, Clyde,” I remind him.

I take him into our parents' room and do the same thing I did for Clyde. I turn on the lights, shout, “MERRY CHRISTMAS! TIME FOR PRESENTS!” and toss off their blankets.

Mom sighs, her head on Roger’s chest. “Oh, Eric,” she says.

A few minutes later, they’re tiredly following me down the stairs to the Christmas tree in the living room. Clyde’s head smacks every step I go down. “Mom, Eric’s trying to give me another Christmas headache,” he complains to Mom. He started calling my mom Mom last month, when he accidentally said, “Hey, Mom, can you give me a spoon, please?” When he realized what he said, he looked at me for my reaction, but I continued to eat my cereal without a word and a blank expression. Since then, he’s been calling her Mom.

Mom tuts. “Eric, put him down,” she scolds.

I don’t. “Not until we’re in front of the tree,” I say.

“Dad!” Clyde exclaims.

Roger just snickers.

I drop Clyde’s feet in front of the tree, like I promised. He blinks up at the bright lights of the tree. His head turns, surveying the presents next to his head. “Awesome,” he breathes.

I sit on the floor next to him. I flick his forehead. “You’re welcome for getting you out of bed, lazy-ass,” I say to him.

He grins. “Merry Christmas to you too, Eric.” He throws a wrapped box at my head. And it’s not a small box. It’s a fairly big one, but it’s light.

I raise an eyebrow, dropping my lumpy gift to him on his face. “Same time or me first?” I ask him.

“ _Me_ first,” Clyde says.

Mom and Roger on the couch take pictures of us. God, it was old when we were in seventh grade, and it’s even older now. I sigh. “Fine, dumbass.”

Roger fiddles with his phone, and Christmas music erupts from the Bluetooth speaker on the shelf.

“Language, Eric. It’s Christmas,” Mom says.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Clyde tears off the sloppy wrapping paper and too many pieces of tape. The shirt I got him tumbles onto his chest. He holds it up. He nods in approval. “A black Champion long sleeve. Good choice. Did you get it from Zumiez?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He laughs. “I got yours from Zumiez too.”

Clyde properly wrapped his gift. The paper isn’t as wrinkled as mine, and he actually put his gift in a box. But it’s a shoe box, so I’m not counting it. I stare at the Nike logo on the top, then at Clyde. He urges me on. I lift the lid and laugh, taking out one of the black slides. “Nice, Clyde. I’ve wanted one of these,” I say.

“Duh. That’s why I got it.”

Then Mom and Roger hand us their gifts from them. I get two new hoodies and a red Adidas windbreaker, three new shirts, one new pair of jeans, and a new pair of black Converse. Clyde also gets black Converse and clothes, but he gets a watch, an Adidas fanny pack, a Vans belt, and some of the weirdest pairs of socks I’ve ever seen.

Once all of us are done opening gifts, Mom and Roger depart into the kitchen to make pancakes and hot cocoa for breakfast. As Clyde and I sit in front of the TV watching _The Office_ , Clyde asks me in a low voice, “What’d you get Butters for Christmas?”

I whisper back, “Hello Kitty clouts, but I’m giving him this old white hoodie of mine that he seems to prefer above the rest.”

Clyde laughs. “Hello Kitty clouts?” he repeats.

I nod. “It’s a real thing.”

“And the Broken Promises hoodie? The one that he wears every time he’s here and Mom and Dad never seem to notice?” he says.

“Yes. That one.”

“Aww, you’re such a sweet boyfriend,” he teases.

“Shut the hell up,” I grumble, feeling my face flush.

“When are you going to see him?”

“Twelve.”

“Scandalous,” Clyde drawls.

I glare at him.

“Boys, breakfast is ready!” Roger calls from the kitchen. Clyde and I trade a glance as we pause the show and go into the kitchen.

 

I feel like a dick for not wrapping Butters’ gifts. I did initially, but I realized how crappy I am at wrapping gifts, with the wrinkled paper and too much tape. It was okay to present such shitty gift wrapping skills to my parents and brother, but it feels weird to give my boyfriend his gifts looking like that. So I put the hoodie and clouts into a bag, but that felt half-assed. I procrastinated until Christmas came around and I panicked and ended up shoving his gifts into my backpack.

And now here I am biking to the east side of town with Butters’ gifts crumpled up and shoved into my backpack. At the U-Stor-It, I drop my bike in front of Chaos’s lair. I climb onto the dumpster, hoisting myself onto the roof. Butters lays there, hands tucked behind his head. My eyes are drawn to the gift bag at his side. I mentally kick myself in advance for looking like a douche. We didn’t have this problem last year, so I don’t know what changed.

He sits up when I walk over to him. “Merry Christmas, Eric!” he says. I can see how his teeth are kind of glossy because of the Invisalign he got back in October. Mom says I’ll get my Invisalign soon.

I crouch next to him and kiss him chastely. “I brought you something, but I don’t know if you’ll like it.” I glance at his gift bag. “But it isn’t done up nice like yours.”

Butters cradles my face. “So? It’s the thought that counts.”

I snort at the cliche saying. I shrug off my backpack and set it between us. “Close your eyes,” I tell him. He closes his eyes.

I unzip my backpack take out the hoodie and clouts. I blush as I stare down at them. The hoodie’s wrinkled. The clouts are fine, more or less. I wrap the clouts in the hoodie and shove them to his chest. “Merry Christmas, or whatever,” I grumble, my eyes fixed on a spot on the roof.

Butters’ eyes open. He lifts up the hoodie, and the clouts tumble into his lap. His eyes widen in recognition of the hoodie. “Broken Promises? Eric, I love this one! I get to keep it?” he asks.

I shrug. “That’s kind of the point of a Christmas present,” I point out.

He giggles and pulls the hoodie over his head. He lifts the collar to his face and inhales. I can see the red on the tips of his ears as he blushes. “Smells like you,” he mumbles.

My blush gets hotter.

He picks up the clouts, continuing to grin at me. He pushes them onto his nose, and I laugh at the Hello Kittys (or Kitties?) on either side of the frames. As far as I’d looked, there were two different kinds: an obnoxiously bright pink pair, or the pale pink pair with white polka dots and cherries, which is the one I got him. Both had a Hello Kitty on the top corner of the frames. He flips up the hood of the hoodie, and ties the drawstrings around his chin. “Do I look like you now?” he jokes.

I roll my eyes. “Haha. Very funny.”

Butters kisses the corner of my mouth before pushing the gift bag between us. “I—I sorta panicked about what to get you so I hope you like it,” he mumbles.

“I’m almost positive I will, B-Butts. There hasn’t been a year you’ve failed me,” I assure him.

He smiles bashfully. “There’s only _been_ one year.”

“Oh yeah.” I pull out the tissue paper. The first thing I see is the folded up maroon shirt. I take it out, grinning at the Thrasher logo. “This is awesome, B-Butts,” I say.

He’s rubbing his knuckles together. “Gee, Eric. I dunno. It seemed unoriginal to me.”

“No it’s not.”

He also got me Adidas sweatpants. “Damn. You got me a whole outfit,” I say.

“Just don’t wear ‘em together ‘cause I heard that wearing different brands together is bad,” he says.

I snort. “Um, no. I’m going to wear this shirt with these sweatpants with my Converse and my Supreme hoodie,” I tell him.

“Sounds like a tragedy,” he mutters playfully.

I laugh. Then I notice a canvas standing up in the bag. I lift it up, staring at it. It’s a painting of the fort. A painting of the _inside_ of the fort, looking up. Polaroids hang from the web of ropes. Different colored blankets and blankets with different patterns line the edges. The whole thing glows faintly orange, and it’s like I’m looking up in the fort right now.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. I stare at Butters, who’s blushing down at his fists. His eyes are hidden behind the black lenses of the clouts. “B-Butts, you did this?”

He nods.

“For _me_?”

He nods again.

I pull him in to me and slam a rough kiss to his mouth. He sighs wistfully against me. I mumble, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispers.

The words were first spoken in the summer of eighth grade. It was a struggle for me. I often run away from my feelings. I don’t like getting close to people. Before, we silently expressed our feelings in fleeting touches and lingering kisses and quick glances and the brushes of fingertips.

We end up hugging, my face buried in his neck. “How was Christmas morning for you?” I ask.

I feel his shrug. “Better than last year. My parents got me some more art supplies. They even got me a new phone.” He tucks his arms between our bodies.

My jaw drops. “Lucky.”

He nods. His voice shakes, “They also told me they love me. They kissed my head too and wished me a merry Christmas.” He sniffles.

I pull back far enough to thumb away his tears. It’s little things like that that make it hard for Butters to hate his parents like I’ve advised him.

He continues, “Then we went to church and Father Maxi told me merry Christmas and that Jesus loves me.”

I brush my lips to his face. He lays his head on my shoulder. “I wish we didn’t have to keep this a secret. I wish we could let people know about us. I wish we didn’t have to be afraid,” he whispers.

I drag my fingers through his ice blonde hair. “I wish that too,” I reply.

There’s a beat of silence where Butters runs his hands down the lines of my new Adidas windbreaker. “I like this. It’s new, huh?” he says.

“Mhm.”

“My parents said I could go over to your house for your parents’ Christmas party,” he says.

“Oh shit. I forgot about that.”

Family from Mom and Roger’s side are coming over later tonight. Charlene arrived a few days ago, but she’s been staying in a hotel with her boyfriend. Clyde went crazy over that, swearing to make sure this guy is right for our sister. My cousins and aunt and uncle are gonna be there. Grandpa too. I’m not exactly looking forward to having to talk to my family members, even if it's only a few. They’re cool and all, but I’m not going to be able to get any alone time with Butters once they're over.

 

The house is crowded, so crowded that the party spills into the backyard. It’s a good thing Clyde’s backyard is big. And nicely decorated too. I think that has something to do with Charlene though. The party has been in full swing for an hour. On Clyde’s side are his grandparents and Charlene. On _my_ side is Aunt Lisa, Uncle Stinky, Elvin, Alexandra, and Grandpa. Out of all of them, Grandpa’s the only one I’ve seen often throughout the years. It’s the rest I haven’t seen in a while.

Elvin’s twelve now. His obsession with fudgesicles has lessened. Alexandra’s prettier than I remember. She’s seventeen now—Shelly’s age. Aunt Lisa and Uncle Stinky are more or less the same. They didn’t bring Cousin Fred, which is a good thing because he’s, like, thirty now.

When they all walked through the door—one at a time because they’re all fat—they showered me in affections. It was mostly Aunt Lisa cooing about how handsome I’m becoming. Elvin gave me a quick squeeze around the middle before turning his attention to Clyde. Alexandra made a comment on how I’m no longer fat like the rest of our stupid family, and that she’s proud of me for trimming down. Uncle Stinky ruffled my hair, and Grandpa pat me on the back, but his eyes were warily on Butters watching from the couch next to Clyde.

After Clyde and I spend time being interviewed by each other’s family members, we sit on the couch playing video games while the adults converse in the backyard. Butters was by my side the whole time I made conversation with Clyde’s grandparents. They asked him a few questions like _How long have you and Eric been friends? What happened to your eye? Is that your natural hair color?_ He answered them all with a kind smile and polite tone of voice I couldn’t maintain after the first ten questions.

Poor Clyde was interviewed by every one of my family members. Aunt Lisa told him how handsome he is. Uncle Stinky clapped him on the back and praised him when Clyde told him he’s on the football team. Grandpa nailed him with questions about what happened to his mom, getting so personal that I had to interfere. I think Elvin admires Clyde already. He won’t leave him alone as he plays  _Red Dead Redemption 2._

“You’re really good at this game. Do you play it a lot?” Elvin says.

Alexandra rolls her eyes, not looking up from her phone. “Elvin, really. Leave him alone.” When I went back to Butters after greeting my family members, he whispered about how Alexandra’s pretty, only to assure me that he meant nothing behind it when I glared at him.

Elvin ignores her, sticking to Clyde’s side like a tumor. He continues babbling out questions and compliments, and Clyde answers him and thanks him with the patience of a saint.

“I never caught your name,” Alexandra says. I glance at her to find her looking at Butters.

“Oh, I’m, uh, Butters,” he says.

“Are you Eric’s friend or Clyde’s?” she wonders.

Clyde answers, “Both of us, though he was technically Eric’s friend first.”

Alexandra leans her cheek on her palm. “You’re pretty for a boy,” she says.

My eyes flicker to Butters next to me. His face is red. “Uh, th-thanks,” he stutters.

I roll my eyes, feeling jealousy tug at me.

Mom comes in. “Kids, there’s more food if you want some—Oh, Butters! What a nice sweatshirt. I think Eric has one exactly like that!” she says. Her eyes are on the white hoodie obviously too big on Butters. I wrapped battery operated Christmas lights around him, but maybe that was a bad idea since it attracts more attention to the hoodie.

I freeze, Clyde winces, and Butters stutters some more. “Y-yeah. I—we—” He starts stammering incoherently.

Alexandra snorts, breaking the awkward tension. “You’re quite the poet,” she says sarcastically. Her eyes fly between me and Butters suspiciously.

“Yeah!” Clyde says, a little too loudly. “All of our friends have the same hoodie. It’s, like, our group thing, you know?”

I let out a small breath of relief, silently thanking Clyde. Him and I exchange a look. Everyone in our group knows that we all own Converse as the group thing, but Mom and Alexandra don’t need to know that.

“Oh, really, Clyde?” Mom says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it.”

“Yeah. I’m not really into hoodies. Those are Eric’s thing,” he says.

Mom nods and kisses the top of mine and Clyde’s heads. “Lovely. Like I said, there’s still food in the kitchen so help yourself.” Then she disappears back to the backyard.

Me, Butters, and Clyde are all still reeling from the close call. Elvin, who had finally shut up, goes back to gushing over Clyde. Alexandra smirks down at her phone screen. Christmas music from outside floats into the house. Butters starts mumbling along to “Santa Tell Me.” I glance at him. He sticks his tongue out at me. The past two songs have been from Ariana Grande’s Christmas album.

The party progresses on until we get to that point where you could leave without saying goodbye and no one would notice. Charlene and Clyde play _Minecraft_ with her boyfriend, Jordan. Since Clyde and I had to be interrogated, we interrogate him. He answers our questions, but nervously. I have a feeling Roger did his part of the interrogation a few hours ago.

“So, _Jordan,_ ” Clyde says. “I see you’re wearing glasses. Are you nearsighted or farsighted? Because as for Eric, he’s nearsighted.”

Jordan chuckles. He eyes me with anxiety at my crossed arms and unamused expression. “Uh, nearsighted. Wearing glasses sucks, huh?” he asks me.

“I’m wearing my contacts, _Jordan_ ,” I say, fighting back a smirk at how he fidgets whenever Clyde or I emphasize his name.

Butters whacks me with his fork, smearing icing on my cheek. “Stop it, Eric,” he scolds.

I lick off the icing. “What?” I ask. He glares at me pointedly over his plate of mostly-gone cinnamon rolls. I take his fork from him.

“I can just get a new fork, y’know?” he says.

“I know. But why would you do that when you can just take this one back?” I wave it under his nose.

We stare at each other, as if challenging the other to make the first move. Butters does—using his fingers to pop the last bite of cinnamon roll into his mouth. He licks his fingers, snatches back his fork, and stomps into the kitchen to throw away his plate.

“Are you guys good friends?”

I turn to Jordan. “What?”

“You and him. Butters, he said his name was. Are you good friends?”

I’m caught between answering _yes, he’s the most obedient lackey one could ask for_ and _no, he’s only here because his parents don’t want to spend time with him._ Neither is an acceptable answer so I say, “Yeah, sure.” Then I get up from the couch and hurry into the kitchen to avoid further questions.

Butters is opening a can of Dr Pepper when I walk in. I stand next to him, staring at the cold food on the dining table. I’ve already eaten so much I feel I might throw up if I eat any more. Just staring at the food makes me feel sick. There used to be a time in my life when all I did was eat like I had a bottomless stomach. I have no idea how I did it.

“Wanna go up to my room?” I ask him.

“Okay.”

We don’t have to sneak past family members because they wouldn’t notice us if we cartwheeled by. But out of sheer habit, we do anyway. We run up the stairs with light feet and into my room. With the door closed and the sound of chatter and Ariana Grande’s “Last Christmas” muffled, the suffocating feeling of being surrounded falls off my shoulders. I sink to the floor, not bothering to turn on the lights.

Butters sits at my desk, sipping from his soda. “It’s pretty late,” he observes, eyeing my alarm clock. It reads 1:16 a.m.

“It is,” I agree.

I run my fingers through my hair, kind of damp from the close proximity of too much body heat from too many people in the house.

“Do you think my parents’ll mind?” he asks quietly.

“Do you want the truth or a lie?”

He thinks. “The truth,” he decides.

“They probably won’t mind. They’re probably too absorbed in themselves to notice you’re gone,” I tell him.

His glare at me is illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window. “You coulda stopped at ‘They won’t mind,' Eric.”

I smirk. “I _could_ have. But would I?”

“No,” he mutters.

I get up to sit on my bed. He ditches his Dr Pepper to sit beside me. He puts his head on my shoulder. I take his hand. With his free hand, he reaches into the pocket of his hoodie that was previously my hoodie and pulls out his clouts. He puts them on, continuing to sit in silence.

I snort. “What was that for?”

Butters puts his arms around my neck. “What do you wanna do?” he asks.

I jokingly ask, “How about a Christmas blowjob? Is that up for grabs?”

I expect him to make an offended noise. I expect him to playfully smack me. I _don’t_ expect him to reach for my fly, his face smug and teasing. Heat rushes through me. His hand just being on my crotch makes me hard. “Is that what you want?” he whispers coyly.

Words don’t form. My head jerks in a stiff nod. He licks his lips, unbuttoning my jeans. I can’t think of anything aside from Butters kneeling in front of me. Jesus. Butters is willing to give me a blowjob. I’m not forcing him. I’m not daring him. I was joking, and he _wants_ to do it. Fuck. My face is warm just thinking about it.

I flashback to fourth grade, when I took that stupid picture with Butters. And what Kyle convinced me to get him to do. The reason he got sent to camp. But his dad isn’t here to walk in on us now. And yeah, my door’s unlocked, but who’s gonna come up here and check my room of all places when everyone’s so caught up in the party downstairs?

I suck in a breath when I feel his hand around me, using his thumb to stroke me tauntingly. I look up at the ceiling, unable to speak. Butters warns, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Neither have I, so just—uh—go with it.” My voice is all gravelly and low and what the fuck. I glimpse at him. He’s still wearing the lights and the clouts. I toss the clouts onto the bed and help him shake off the lights.

He smiles up at me, a small, teasing smile. And then his mouth is _there_ and it’s hot and slick and “Holy fucking shit,” I moan. He’s doing something with his hands too and it makes me even more crazy. But I mean his _tongue_ , holy fuck, his tongue.

I don’t know how I function. My mind is cloudy as fuck. But somehow, I have enough in me to run my hands through his hair. It sticks straight up. Curse words spill out of my mouth, all raspy and husky. Sweat stands on my skin. For his first time, he’s really good at this.

With a long drag of his tongue, I let out a strangled cry, a humiliating sound. Then he’s wiping his mouth, pushing my trash can away, and I collapse on my back. That just happened. It was real. My dreams didn’t ever prepare me for something like that.

Butters climbs onto the bed and sits next to me, brushing my matted hair off my forehead. I gaze up at him, perplexed and awestruck. “You just did that,” I croak.

He flashes me a grin. “Don’t worry, Eric. You’ll return the favor soon enough.”

I process the words, my mind sluggish. Ten seconds too late, I finally realize the meaning of his words. I laugh. It’s a delirious, still-muddled-by-lust kind of laugh. I watch as he pushes his clouts up his nose. He lays his head in the crook of my neck.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I mumble.

“Merry Christmas, Eric,” he says.

I laugh again. “Merry Christmas, B-Butts.”


	16. Eric Cartman

**Freshman year.**

After that scare during the Christmas party, I made it my goal to prepare myself to tell my parents about me and Butters. And me being a homo, but that’s all part of the same package. So my New Year’s resolution is to come out to my family. Only my family though. And not my entire family, but the three I live with. And not my friends either. I’m not ready for them to smirk at me and tell me they told me so.

We’re all watching some movie on Netflix. Mom and Roger are quietly discussing something. I share the armchair with Butters while Clyde and Mom and Roger sit on the couch. I wonder how Butters sitting on the arm of the chair isn’t obvious enough.

I fiddle with my glasses, tapping rapidly at the frame. “Mom?” I say. “Can you pause the movie? Please?”

Roger pauses it.

I feel my face heat up, eyes searching the floor. My fucking heart is going spastic and I’m overheating in my hoodie. I crack my knuckles. My leg is bouncing. My voice shakes as I say, “I have something to tell you.” I look up. “ _All_ of you.”

Clyde must sense what’s going on. His eyebrows shoot up. He stares at me in encouraging question.

I groan, running a hand through my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck, I have no idea how to do this,” I mutter.

Butters puts his hand on my shoulder. I peek up at him from between my fingers. He gives me the smallest of smiles. I suck in a breath and sit up a little straighter. I stare my mom dead in the eye, and I blurt, “I’m gay.” My voice cracks, startling me. I blink rapidly. Maybe I’m blinking back tears.

I don’t know what to expect of their reactions, but I’m surprised when Clyde throws his arms around me and says, “I knew you could do it, bro.” Mom clasps her hands together, sharing proud smiles with Roger. Like Clyde, they get up, but they kiss my head and tell me, “We’re so proud of you. We’ll love you no matter what.”

I glance at Butters over Mom’s shoulder. He’s smiling, probably at my red cheeks and gaping mouth. I’m frozen in shock, but when I meet his eyes, I remember the last little detail. I clear my throat. “I have something else to tell you,” I say, my gaze still on Butters.

My parents pull back, and Clyde nods at me from where he’s sitting on the coffee table. He knows what’s coming. Our parents do not.

Roger makes a flourishing gesture. “Tell us, kiddo.”

I glance at Butters again, for support, for encouragement, for bravery. I turn back to Mom and Roger. I lick my lips, suddenly dry. “We’re dating. Butters and me, I mean. We’ve been dating for a year and five months.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Well, your dad and I had a feeling about that… but we had no idea for how long.” Mom’s brown eyes fall on Butters. He shrinks into himself. “After all, there were those _incidents_ you had with Butters back in fourth grade, Eric.” She grins and her eyes twinkle.

I groan in embarrassment, Clyde laughs, and Roger looks confused.

Roger blinks and smiles. “A year, then? That’s a long time. I’m proud of you, Eric,” he says.

I shake out my hair with my fingers. “Thanks.”

“But Eric’s got more to worry about since Butters is bi. Not only does he gotta watch out for other guys, but other girls too,” Clyde remarks.

I glower at him. He winks.

Mom laughs. She puts a hand under my chin, tilting my head up to her. “Oh, Eric.” She searches my face lovingly, and I don’t think she’s ever looked at me with such pride.

I smile bashfully, watching Butters. He’s blushing—his cheeks and neck and ears all red. I gently pry Mom’s hands off my face, my smile dripping away. “Can you guys please promise to not tell anyone? Not your friends, not even, like, grandparents and cousins? We’re fine with letting you know, but we’re not really ready for _everyone else_ to know,” I explain.

Mom and Roger nod. “Of course, sweetie,” Mom says.

Roger chucks Clyde’s shoulder. “Do you promise not to tell?” he asks him.

Clyde shrugs, nonchalant. “I mean, I have been for two years,” he says.

“Two years?” Roger echoes.

They look at me and Butters expectantly. Butters laughs nervously, rubbing his knuckles together. “Oh boy,” he mumbles.

I lean my head on his arm. Whatever. They know now. I can fucking put my head on him without feeling weird about it. “We started dating in September of eighth grade. But we were in a kind of gray area in seventh grade. I, uh,” My face gets hot, “I kissed him the first time in seventh grade—a day before your wedding actually,” I say.

“That I did not know,” Clyde says.

Mom and Roger’s faces are full of surprise now. Roger says, “So technically speaking, you’ve been together for almost two years.”

I shrug. “Technically. But we don’t count those five or six months. It’s complicated,” I mutter.

Mom says, “So on Christmas, it _was_ your sweatshirt, Eric, that Butters was wearing.”

I facepalm, smushing my glasses to my face. God, this is getting really stupid. And really embarrassing.

“He gave it to me as a gift,” Butters answers.

Mom laughs. “How sweet.” I roll my eyes. “Well, Eric, your dad and I have to go to the store real quick. Behave,” she says.

They’re gone soon enough.

“That was… Not what I expected,” I say.

Clyde switches the movie to the Xbox input. “I knew they’d be chill with it,” he says.

Butters slides off the arm of the chair, squeezing in next to me. “Yeah. That seemed like the best outcome possible. I know my parents’ reactions won’t be like that.” His knuckles knock together. I take his right arm and put it around my shoulders.

“Don’t think about that. Not yet,” I tell him.

He smiles at me. I kiss his cheek. Clyde _Aww_ s.


	17. Butters Stotch

**Freshman year.**

The first time I hear Eric call Mr. Donovan Dad is in May. We’re at lunch. He’s holding my hand under the table so our friends can’t see. Eric gets a phone call, his phone vibrating on the tabletop. Even though I can’t hear it, I know “Telephone” by Lady Gaga is his ringtone. He picks up.

“Yeah?” Pause. Behind his glasses, he glances at Clyde sitting across from us. “Yeah sure. Okay, Dad. Bye.”

Clyde blinks in surprise, the way I gasp quietly. All nine heads at the table turn to Eric with questioning and shocked looks. Kyle’s the only one who looks suspicious and amused.

Eric says to his brother, “We aren’t taking the bus today. Dad’s picking us up because he needs to go to Home Depot.”

Clyde’s jaw falls as he exclaims, “You said it again!”

Eric’s brows press together. “What?”

“You called my dad Dad!”

“So? You starting calling Mom Mom in November, dumbass.”

Clyde flicks a straightened hand at him that I can only describe as _Boi._

Eric snorts and looks back down at his phone. I let go of his hand to continue eating my tuna sandwich. He says, “Why the fuck are you guys memeing my Instagram bio? Like really, Clyde? ‘I lowkey highkey’?”

Clyde laughs. “Well your bio’s funny. ‘I lowkey have trust issues’,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

When Eric changed his bio from _Respect my authoritah_ to _I lowkey have trust issues_ last week, Kenny made a group chat with everyone in our group except Eric. He told us to change our Instagram bios to “I lowkey” something. So we did.

Kenny’s bio is _I’m lowkey poor._

Stan: _I lowkey hate myself._

Kyle: _I lowkey have red hair._

Jimmy: _I’m lowkey Loki._

Tweek: _I lowkey have anxiety._

Craig: _I’m lowkey gay._

Token: _I’m lowkey black._

“ ‘I’m lowkey named Butters’!” Eric exclaims. He glares at me. “Butters!”

I laugh around my tuna sandwich.

“I hate you so much,” he snaps. The words echo around my mind as I decode them for what they really are. Under that double meaning, he’s telling me he loves me. That’s how we work. It’s always subtext. Always secret.

“Hey, guys.” Wendy appears at our table with her lunch tray in hand. Kyle has to scoot away as she wedges herself between him and Stan.

Everyone replies, “Hi, Wendy.” Except Eric, who says, “Wassup, hoe?” I catch Kyle briefly smirk at that.

Wendy and Stan glare at him. “Cartman, I swear to God. Stop it,” he says.

Eric grins. He doesn’t have his Invisalign in since we’re eating. They’re sitting in a spitty puddle on his plate. I remember the first time he got them he didn’t talk all day because he hated the lisp, but I told him if he didn’t talk, the lisp would last longer, and so he wouldn’t stop talking. But I like the sound of his voice. Even with a little lisp. He says, “What? I didn’t say anything.”

Stan continues glowering, but Wendy says, “Why do all your bios start with ‘I lowkey’ or ‘I’m lowkey’? Bebe was asking.”

Clyde perks up at the mention of Bebe. Craig snickers at him and calls him “Loser.” Poor Clyde cried when he found out Bebe’s dating a sophomore. They broke up not too long ago though, so he still has a chance.

“We’re making fun of Cartman’s bio,” Tweek answers.

“Shut up, Tweek,” Eric says. “You highkey have trust issues.”

Tweek smiles brightly. He stopped wearing his Invisalign earlier this year. His teeth are all nice and straight now. Craig thinks we’re out against him getting Invisalign since he’s the only one so far with braces. Jimmy got his removed in sixth grade. “I know, man.”

Tweek and Craig are such a handsome pair. Craig’s got a sharp jawline and long nose and light green eyes and sunkissed skin. He’s tall and stoic. Tweek’s got an impish smile and blue-green eyes and some freckles over the bridge of his nose and he’s got muscles too. He can also make a Taylor Swift _reputation_ shirt look cool the way he pairs it with a plaid green button-down that he leaves unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Tweek dresses kinda grungy in his gray jeans and Timberlands. Craig dresses like a skater, even though Wendy’s the one who skates. They look so good together and they can love each other so openly.

Craig throws an arm around Tweek. They share a smile, and then Craig kisses Tweek. Just like that. They don’t hide it. They don’t have to secretly hold hands under the table and act like they’re not.

Craig says to Tweek, “I love you, cocksucker.”

Tweek says back, “I love you too, buttweed.”

They don’t have to say “I hate you so much” and have it mean the opposite. Their loving gazes don’t have to be disguised as glares. Nothing about their relationship has to be strategic. I wonder if Eric and I’ll ever get the chance to be like them. Maybe one day, when we aren’t so afraid of what other people may think.

Eric presses in his Invisalign and tugs at the elbow of my teal jacket. “Let’s go,” he says, and I know exactly what those words mean.

As I put in my own Invisalign, we get up from the table, throwing away our left over lunch. Everyone at the table says nothing, just fitting for watching us walk away with seven inches of air between mine and Eric’s shoulders. When we round a corner, out of their line of vision, Eric closes the space between us as we near the tennis courts and the crowd of students gets less dense.

Nobody ever hangs out in the tennis courts. No one even goes here. We don’t know why. It’s not off limits. People just don’t like it. So we decided to make it the place we go to hide away and be alone together. The first time we spent a lunch here together was in January at the end of the month. Eric had cautiously leaned over and kissed me, as if waiting for someone to walk into the court and bust us.

Now we’re past that carefulness. Once we’re in the tennis courts, Eric pulls me to the ground with him. Backs against the covered fence, he brings my face to his. It’s one small, little kiss that’s barely a kiss and just a gentle brush of the lips. I lick and bite my bottom lip, more in anticipation than trying to pull him back in. But the action makes him stare at my lips nonetheless. I feel his hand on my waist, the other curling into the pocket of my jacket. He locks eyes with me, the deep blue flecks stark against the violet, the brown honey in the sunlight.

And then he’s devouring my lips. It’s messy and slick. I feel his tongue lick the roof of my mouth, making me shiver and dig my nails into his arms. He breaks for air, but I don’t let him get far. His sigh fans out across my blazing cheeks. His hands are on my hips. And then I’m lowering onto my back, his face in my palms, but I don’t know if it’s me laying me down or if it’s him.

Like the weight of his kiss, I like the weight of his body on top of mine. I tilt my head, kissing him deeper, giving him more access to my mouth. He takes advantage of it, our tongues dancing, our breathing heavy. Sweat stands on the back of my neck. His teeth are slippery ‘cause of the Invisalign.

“I don’t hate you,” he breathes into me. His eyes are half-lidded as he pecks at me with his teeth behind his lips.

My own lips tingle, numbing. “I know,” I whisper.

His hair brushes the bridge of my nose, lips moving with mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're so cool, it makes me hate you so much  
> I hate you so much..."  
> -Gorgeous


	18. Eric Cartman

**Summer.**

During the three or so months Butters and I are the same age, I always find myself way too proud about it, even though there’s nothing to be proud about. He’ll just turn sixteen in September, and I’ll have to wait another nine months to be the same age as him. It’s annoying, being considered the “younger” one of the group. Tweek is the young _est,_  but I’m right before him by a month. Clyde’s constantly rubbing it in my face that he’s older than me by four months. Lucky April tenth bastard. It also doesn’t help he’s taller than me. He’s 5’10. I’m 5’9½. It’s a fucking half of an inch away from 5’10. It pisses me off.

There was a point in middle school where Butters and I were the shortest of our group. Even _Tweek_ was taller than us then. He was the shortest of us in elementary school, and he got the glory of discarding that title when we started at Mala Vista. But then he slowed down when high school came around, and Butters and I kept growing. Now Tweek’s the shortest once more. But I can’t seem to shake Butters. We’re pretty much the same height, aside from the fact that I'm half an inch taller.

But Craig, the fucking beanpole, makes anyone feel short. He’s 6’2. 6’2! He’s an actual giant and he dwarfs anyone who stands next to him! Tweek looks like a child when they have their arms around each other. That conversation between Tweek was pretty weird. I said something like “How tall is Craig? He’s gigantic!”

And Tweek said, “He’s 6’2.”

And I said, “Shit, really? Then how big is his… you know.”

And he said with a smirk, “Hey, stay in your lane. I could steal Butters right out from under you and you wouldn’t even notice.”

And I got so fucking terrified that he knew about us that I shut my mouth. I convinced myself that he meant he could steal Butters from me friend-wise, and not boyfriend-wise, but deep down, I knew it was a fucking lie. I mean, like, the gayest couple in school cannot _not_ catch onto two of their friends in a secret relationship. But hopefully they’re too wrapped up in each other to notice.

For my birthday a week ago, all nine of my friends and I went down to the water park, since it’s always burning hot in South Park Julys. Kyle was still being a pussy about going into the water because of "all the people that pee in there.” I _did_ flashback to that time in fourth grade when that one water park was _just_ pee. It was pretty gross, but this is a completely different water park! This one’s only been open for a few months.

It felt like a breath of fresh air for all of us to hang out as one again. Sure, we hang out together at school, but ever since high school started, we’ve all had our own things. Even Butters and I sometimes sneak off to hide away in the tennis courts to be alone together. And I still spend time with Stan and them, but it doesn’t feel the same as being around Butters. I don’t think they mind me not hanging out with them so much as I used to. I know Kyle definitely doesn’t mind. Kenny might the most. Might. Or maybe he just misses Butters.

I felt betrayed when Kenny said Butters was his best friend in fourth grade. Everyone knew Butters threw around that Kenny was his best friend, but Kenny had stayed silent. Then one day he spoke up and announced Butters was his best friend. And it stung. I _did_ consider Kenny as my best friend for a while, but more often than not, it was Butters I found myself confiding in. I remember when Butters first claimed Kenny was his best friend, I silently cursed him for being a traitor. I trusted him. I told him things I told no one else. I let him see me in my moments of humiliating weakness. And maybe that was why it was so hard to tell him I loved him, one summer ago. For me, opening up to people in general is hard. Feelings are scary things unable to be controlled. I’m not a control freak, at least I don’t think, but I hate it when I can’t control something about _myself._ When I first realized I started liking him in a non-platonic way, I was pissed and afraid that I couldn’t control those emotions.

Sometimes, I still feel pissed and afraid at how easily I’ll do anything Butters says if it’s followed by a touch. I’m a traitor to myself.

Butters is talking at me from across the table. With the bright afternoon casting a halo behind him, he looks like an angel. He’s got his chin in one hand, the other tracing down the bridge of my nose. His words come flooding back to me, and he says, “Have you always had this bump here?”

“No. It formed after the various amounts of times I’ve been punched. I think Tweek’s punch in eighth grade really did it,” I answer.

Butters shakes his head. “We warned you about making fun of Craig’s braces.”

I smile softly. “I know.”

“You were bleeding real bad and your nose was all crooked. And swollen,” he adds. He scrunches up his nose—his very girlish button nose. “My nose hurts just thinkin’ about it.”

I laugh, taking his hand still on my face and kissing his palm. The house is quiet. Mom and Dad are at work, and Clyde’s out with his friends. It’s fairly reminiscent of the time Clyde walked in on me and Butters kissing.

“We should go to Stark’s Pond,” he suggests.

We get up from the table and he follows me upstairs. “Sounds like a good idea. Let me put in my contacts.”

In my room, he collapses on my bed, his head propped up with his hand. His eyes are on the opposite wall. He comments, “Are there _only_ hoodies in your closet?”

I turn to my closet, the door open. Hung up are all my hoodies I’ve collected over the years. My favorite is the red Supreme hoodie I got for my birthday a few years ago. I smirk at him. “Yeah. I wish it was hoodie season. It’s too hot,” I say.

Butters chuckles. I take a capsule of new contacts and go into the bathroom. The thing about contacts is that sometimes I don’t get them in the first try, and I’ll blink and they’ll fall out, and my arm will start to get tired from various attempts. It’s the main reason I wear my glasses most of the time.

In the bathroom, I get my left contact in on the first try. I blink a few times, centering them. I stare at myself in the mirror, my reflection no longer blurry. I run a hand through my unruly hair. Downstairs, the doorbell rings. I leave the bathroom, telling Butters as I pass my room, “Stay there. Don’t make a sound.”

He nods, then looks back down at his phone. Him with his feet kicked up and his chin in his hands scrolling through Instagram burns in my brain as I go downstairs and open the door. Stan, Kyle, and Kenny stand in front of me. The thoughts of Butters vanish. “What?” I say.

Stan says, “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I ask, keeping my feet planted.

“We’re gonna bike out of town. You’re coming with us,” Kyle says.

“Why?”

Kenny says, “Because. We haven’t hung out as just the four of us in forever. It’d be fun to have a day where it’s just us again.”

It reminds me of a conversation we had in fourth grade. Where things were so hectic, and the bike parade was the thing that we could do together as a whole group again. We ended up _not_ going as a group, and Butters ended up winning the fifty bucks anyway. Him in his gay tiara and his peacock feathers.

“Why now?” I ask.

“Shut up, fatass. We know you aren’t doing anything,” Kyle remarks with an eye roll.

I narrow my eyes at him. “If you’re just gonna call me fat the whole time, all of you can kiss my ass because I’m not going.” I start to close the door, but Stan puts his foot in the doorway.

He pushes open the door. “Wait, hang on, Cartman.” He trades a look with Kyle, and they stare at each other. Kyle’s glowering, Stan’s looking at him expectantly.

Then Kyle sighs and turns to me. He bites out through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry, Cartman. I won’t call you names. As long as you don’t call _me_ any.”

I bite back a smirk and decide to milk the situation. I shake my head. “Oh, Kyle. That didn’t sound very sincere. Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

I start to close the door again, but then Kyle shouts, “Okay, fine! Sorry, sorry. Now can we _please_ just go? It’s getting late and my mom wants me home in time for dinner.”

“Cool.” I close the door behind me and grab my bike from the garage. As we’re biking away do I remember that I left Butters up in my room. Whatever joy I felt earlier when my friends showed up at my doorstep drains from me, leaving me cold and hollow. “Oh, shit,” I mutter to myself.

We’re already by the town sign when I brake and take out my phone. The guys stop when they realize I have. I shoot Butters a text, telling him I’m out with the guys. He doesn’t reply instantly like he usually does. I bite my lip, suddenly worried.

“What’s wrong?” Kenny asks.

“I forgot to tell my mom where I’m going,” I lie. I put my phone back in my pocket and start pedaling again. “It’s fine. Let’s just keep going.”

 

We find a spot in the woods. There’s a river, and a waterfall a bit further down. We sit with our feet in the water of a cove. Birds chirp in the trees giving us shade. We biked a long way. According to Kyle, it was a thirty-five minute bike ride. But it felt longer. My legs were starting to burn, and we just so happened to stop here. Biking here was fun. It was nice for it to just be us again. And the euphoria continued on an hour into finding the place. But now it’s all died down and we sit in silence.

Kyle sighs. “When people told us we’d go through changes in high school, I wasn’t expecting this. Stan’s always with Wendy, Kenny’s always with Henrietta, and Cartman, you’ve been so distant. I never thought our friendships would change,” he says. He tosses a rock into the water. The ripples lap at my ankles.

“As much as I hate Craig, it’s so boring without him and Those Guys. Remember your Bar Mitzvah, Ky? Dude, us and Craig and Those Guys were screaming for you so loud that your mom was pissed the whole rest of the day,” Stan says.

I grin into my hand. That was pretty funny.

Kyle snorts. “Yeah. God, she talked to me for a _long_ time about _formalities_ after you guys went home. It was dumb. But the fact that you were there made up for it.”

There’s more quiet with birds and rustling leaves and the faint burble of the waterfall down the river. Kenny skips a rock twice before it sinks. “We should’ve invited Butters,” he says. The name brings back that stab of worry about him not replying to me. I’ve checked my phone every ten minutes since we got here, and he still hasn’t replied. He’s read the text though. Fucking leaving me on read. Cold.

Kenny continues, “I mean, Butters is a part of our friend group now. I think we just have to accept that it’s not exclusively us four anymore. We’ve made more friends. We can’t keep clinging to the past.”

He keeps talking about facing real life and what it’s become for us, but his voice fades to the background as I begin to think about what they don’t know. Me and Butters. In September, it’ll be our two years. And my friends have no idea. I want to tell them because they’re my friends. But at the same time, what if they tell me they told me so? Or worse question Butters as to why he would want to put up with _me_ of all people. They’d probably tell him he can do better. They’d tell him he’s crazy. They’ll tell him I’m just manipulating him like I always do, and like always, he’s too blind to see it. And Butters will believe them, and that’ll be it. We’ll be done. Because I’m such a shitty person.

But I’m also aware of the toll the secret is taking on us. It makes me on edge and closed off to my friends. Every little thing that might give us away sends a cold jolt through me. But I think it’s worse for Butters. At school, I tell him I hate him and scowl at him—all to save face. He plays it off fine, but I see it in his eyes that the words have an affect on him. And that kills me. I want him to believe I love him. Because I do. I’ve never loved someone before, I didn’t want to. And maybe I don’t even know what love is. Maybe I’m convinced that whatever is between us is love.

But I know I care about him the way I don’t care about anyone else. He’s the only one I’ve ever let in. He knows my faults and flaws and my darkest side. And through it all, he stays. I don’t want to lose that. He makes me feel exactly what scares me about love. He makes my emotions go haywire, and it makes me _furious_ that he can make feel that, but at the same time, it amazes me that he can make me feel anything at all. He makes me do things I wouldn’t normally do. He allows me to feel vulnerable. And he still smiles and holds me and he’s always there when I need him.

What’s so wrong about letting my friends know that? Why do we have to hide it? Because I’m scared of others’ opinions? Because he’s scared of his parents finding out he’s bisexual and dating _me,_ of all people? These are my friends. These are the people I’ve known all my life. It’s so wrong to keep a secret like this from them for so long. They’ve always gossiped amongst themselves about who they like, what they like about their girlfriends. Like thirteen-year-old girls at sleepovers. And sure, we have our comments, our disapprovals and disgusts, but otherwise, we’re there for each other. What’s so different about my situation?

“Cartman.”

I look up to see my three closest friends staring at me.

“Dude, you’ve been uncharacteristically quiet,” Kyle says.

“Something on your mind?” Kenny asks. “You know you can tell us.”

I know. I know, and yet, my mouth goes dry and I say, “Nah. Nothing. Just tired.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Anxiety bites through me as I scramble for it, silently praying it’s Butters. I ignore my friends trading concerned looks. I turn it on, and on my screen is a message from Butters. I open it and read, **I saw you fellas bike off. I went home after I realized you weren’t coming back.**

I wince. God, that doesn’t sound good. He sounds pissed, and I can’t even hear his voice. I frantically type out an apology, telling him the guys showed up out of nowhere and I forgot he was up in my room, and that I’m sorry. It was an honest mistake.

My only reply is a short, **Of course you forgot.**

I swear aloud, realizing how shitty I sound telling him I forgot about him. I spam more apologies, even going as far as repeating that I love him. He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even see the texts.

“Fuck!” I facepalm, scowling at myself.

“Dude,” Stan says.

“Are you _sure_ everything’s okay, Cartman?” Kyle asks.

“Yes! God, yes!” I shoot to my feet, sloshing through the water back to our shoes and bikes. “Can we just hurry up and get back home? Please?” I say. I crouch by my bike and use my hoodie to dry off my feet. It’s an old faded hoodie anyway. I don’t even like yellow that much.

We bike back to South Park, me at the head, standing as I pedal as fast as I can. All I can think is _Holy shit, I’ve screwed everything up with Butters._

The guys shout at me to slow down, but their words don’t register in my brain. Back in town, I call to them over my shoulder, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, maybe. I gotta go.”

Then I power all the way to Butters’ house. My bike clatters to the Stotches’ driveway. I don’t have Butters’ key. I’m too exhausted to try to climb to his window. And even if I did, the window might be locked, and he might not even open it for me. So I pound on the front door, panting and sweating.

It’s Butters who opens the door, and I realize that it’s only five. His parents won’t be home for another hour. He doesn’t smile when he sees me. He doesn’t greet me. He just stares at me and my mess of a self. I don’t say anything either. I just throw myself at him, wrapping him in a hug. He stumbles back, and I hear the front door close behind us.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry,” I tell him, squeezing him tighter.

His arms are limp at his sides. He’s quiet for a while before saying, “You _forgot_ about me, Eric. I thought we were past this. I thought this was a fourth grade thing.”

“B-Butts, I didn’t mean it. Please.” I kiss his shoulder.

He says nothing, makes no move. At first, I’m scared he’s going to shrug me off and distance himself, but then, slowly, I feel his arms go around me. He slumps into me, his face fitting into my neck. “Just don’t do it again,” he mumbles.

I nod. “I promise, B-Butts. I can’t forget you—”

“Pinkie promise?” he says, holding up his pinkie.

I curl mine around his, not letting go as I continue, “It’s impossible to forget you. I just—I got so caught up in hiding us that you slipped my mind. I’m sorry.” I run my fingers through his hair. “Don’t go.”

His own fingers caress my face. “Go where?”

“Away from me.”

His sigh ruffles my hair. “I’d never leave you,” he says. I pull back to kiss him softly. He smiles. He pushes up on his tiptoes just a little bit, enough to reach my lips when he kisses me. I can feel his smile on me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "People started talking, putting us through our paces  
> I knew there was no one in the world who could take it  
> I had a bad feeling..."  
> -Dancing With Our Hands Tied


	19. Butters Stotch

**Sophomore year.**

Two years. A second checkpoint, Eric called it this morning on the bus. And we’re ready to reveal our secret. Instead of going to school with our hands joined, Eric insisted we lead up to the reveal—over his Instagram stories. Eric has over nine hundred followers. I don’t know how that’s possible, considering the fact that I only have a few hundred. Maybe it’s 'cause Eric’s such a people-person. I’m pretty sure everyone who'd went to our middle school and their mothers follow him. But before that was his YouTube channel that blew up in fourth grade. So maybe that contributes too.

Of course, Stan has more followers than Eric, almost a million. I wonder if Stan would be able to get verified if he tried. It’s probably better that Eric has a sorta small audience anyway. If we were to be judged, which I doubt, at least a million people won’t be watching.

Mr. Donovan drops us off at Super Phun Thyme. Both of us haven’t been since fourth grade. Mr. Donovan rolls down the window, saying, “Call me when you’re ready to be picked up.”

Eric nods.

Clyde’s window goes down. “Good luck!” he says.

The car drives off down the road.

I look to Eric, whose phone is already in hand. Eric points the camera at me as we start walking. “Excited?” he asks. Behind his phone, there’s a grin on his mouth. It makes me feel more assured.

“I guess,” I answer.

Eric swivels the phone to the sign. Then he drops his arm. His phone goes to his pocket, and he picks up my hand. It’s the first time we’ve held hands in public without hiding it and it makes me giddy.

“Are we really gonna document this whole thing?” I wonder.

“No. Just enough to keep people on the edges of their seats,” Eric answers. “I still want you to myself.”

I feel myself blush red. I hide my face in Eric’s shoulder. “Well, jeez, Eric,” I say.

He laughs, squeezing my hand. We enter Super Phun Thyme. I’m surrounded by laughter and music playing in speakers above and other sounds of an indoor amusement park. “What should we do first?” Eric asks after we pay.

“How about from the top down? I mean, it’s really just more of the arcade games,” I suggest.

“Sure.”

Eric and I play a few games like _Pac-man_ and _Donkey Kong._ Eric plays more of the arcade games, and I just watch him. I take a picture of him raging at losing _Space Invaders_. I put it on his story. We spend maybe an hour in the arcade. Once we’re bored of it, we go back to the first floor.

I spot the entrance to the roller skating rink. I tug Eric along. In the rink, music blasts overhead. Eric isn’t as graceful as I am when it comes to roller skating, but at least he doesn’t fall over. He follows me as I spin ahead, singing the songs playing. Eric laughs.

“B-Butts, shut up. People are looking,” he says.

So I sing louder.

As we leave the skating rink, Eric says, “I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”

Last time when we were here in fourth grade, we only had enough money left to share a milkshake. We made sure to bring more money this time, and we order burgers and fries. But like fourth grade, we order a chocolate milkshake to share. We laugh and talk.

At one point, he’s staring off into the distance, thinking, with his chin in his palm. Unable to help myself, I lean across the table and kiss his lips. I’m smiling brightly when I pull back. Eric meets my eye and his serious expression quirks up in a smile. And I’m reminded why I love him so much.

He’s a completely different person with me. He’s gentle and sweet, but he’s not afraid to speak his mind. Sometimes that gets him into trouble. I’ve always admired that about him, maybe because I know I would just censor my words if I tried. Eric’s dragged me into messes over the years, but I’m always willing to help because of that thrill I get from doing dangerous things. Being with Eric is like riding the world’s tallest roller coaster with dips and corkscrews and the rush of the wind on your face. It’s always been that way.

I lose at laser tag. I don’t know _why_ I bothered being on a separate team from him. I played myself, as Eric said. I won at bowling, though. Eric shrugged and said bowling’s gay anyway. I punched his arm playfully and he laughed.

In fourth grade when we went on the bumper cars, I was dragged across the floor like a mop. This time, I ram my car into Eric’s as many times as I can. It’s a whole lot funner seeing his car jerk every time I crash into him.

We run into the bounce house while it’s empty. I crawl in first, bouncing gently. Eric bobs over to me, causing my light jumps to toss me up higher in the air.

“Stop that,” I say, jumping back.

He sticks his tongue out at me.

I do a front flip, then a backflip.

“Show off!” Eric shouts.

I laugh at him. “Well I’m sorry that you’re jealous that only you can jump up and down,” I tease.

Eric shakes his head at me. I can see the smile on his face. “You shouldn’t have said that. Wanna know why?”

To humor him, I ask, “Why?”

“Because this!” Eric lunges at me, tackling me to the floor.

With me pinned under him, he lifts his head. His eyes fly over me, his face in an expression of mild amusement. Then he dips his head and presses a firm kiss to my mouth. All I can do is smile. Eric gets off of me and goes back to jumping. He starts singing the song playing overhead. His phone is at my side. It must’ve fallen from his pocket when he tackled me. I pick it up and go onto Instagram. I record him jumping and singing.

I notice his gaze find me, and he drops to his knees to kiss my cheek. I giggle, the phone slipping from my grasp. I turn my face, letting him kiss my lips. I put my arms around him, my smile never disappearing. Eric covers my face in kisses. “Why’d you have to be so cute, huh? It makes it impossible to stay mad at you, asshole,” he says.

I shrug. “I dunno. That’s just how God made me.”

Eric snorts, continuing to brush his lips over my face. I relish the feeling. Eric’s warm against me. But the moment is ruined when a group of kids come into the bounce house and start causing a ruckus. Eric rolls his eyes and takes my hand. He leads me out of the bounce house.

We play through the mini golf course, and after I win (again), we realize we’ve gone through the best parts of Super Phun Thyme.

Eric says, “I guess I should call Dad to pick us up.”

As we wait for Mr. Donovan, we sit outside against the wall. Eric kisses my cheek and he posts it on his story. This is what we’ve been building up for. This is the big reveal. I’m jittery with nerves. Eric is constantly biting his lip and fiddling with my hand in his.

After five minutes, our phones start pinging rapid fire. Eric checks his. I lean on his shoulder and see his screen overflowing with text messages from our friends. Some individual, some from the group chat. There's two names I’m unfamiliar with, Lawrence and Toby. I point at it. “Who're they?” I ask Eric.

“Internet friends. I used to talk to them a lot in fourth grade. Not so much anymore, but Lawrence still follows me on Instagram,” he says. “They must have seen the stories.”

Mr. Donovan’s car pulls up to the curb. Eric and I get up and go into the car. Clyde’s sitting in the front seat. He turns to us when we climb in. “Dude. Have you _seen_ the group chat?” he asks. “They’re freaking out.”

Eric looks away. “I haven’t opened it yet,” he says.

Unlike Eric, I’m unable to resist the urge to look through the messages and Instagram. I check Instagram first. Most girls screenshotted then reposted the picture onto their story. I have quite a few DMs, all of them I’m anxious to look at, so I ignore them. It’s the group chat that won’t quiet down. I even see Tweek had sent a text that he and Craig had a feeling there was something between us. Dougie’s texted me too. I turn off my ringer and open the messages. I respond to only one thing, and that’s to clarify that I’m bisexual and not gay. Eric sees me going through the messages, and soon he starts doing the same.

Back at Eric’s house, we lay on his bed. “I’m honestly shocked at their reactions. I expected more ridicule,” he says.

I nod. “It’s good. I told you we didn’t have to worry about anything.” I leave out the part about all the DMs I got asking if I’d lost my mind.

Eric smirks, grabbing my face and placing a gentle kiss to my mouth. I kiss him back more passionately, and he smiles between the kiss.

“So what now?” he asks.

I shrug. “We can hold hands and stuff, I guess. I dunno. I never thought we’d make it this far,” I muse.

He laughs, pulling me to his chest. His fingers trail through my hair. I stare at him staring at me. He smiles a small smile without any teeth, and I feel warm and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why'd you have to be so cute?  
> It's impossible to ignore you  
> Why must you make me laugh so much?  
> It's bad enough we get along so well..."  
> -goodnight n go


	20. Butters Stotch

**Sophomore year.**

I put my Chemistry textbook in my locker. It’s been an exhausting Friday so far, and I just want to go home. It’s lunch time, but the line’s always so long for the first ten minutes of lunch. To waste the meantime, I usually put away all the stuff I don’t need into my locker. I’m about to close my locker when I feel arms go around me from behind. They’re Eric’s arms. I recognize the pale pink of his hoodie and his big hands. His mouth is pressed to the curve between my neck and shoulder. I reach my hand back to run my fingers down his cheek.

“Eric? What’s wrong?” I ask.

It’s been a week since we went public. Aside from people knowing, nothing much has changed. We still aren’t comfortable with public displays of affection—I don’t think we’ll ever be—so this makes it the first time Eric’s hugged me with people around to witness it.

His voice muffled by my skin when he says, “I miss you.”

I’m caught between confusion and wanting to laugh. I do my best to force down a smile, but to no avail. “You miss me? Eric, you saw me this morning. I’ve been here the whole time,” I remind him.

He nods, lips brushing my shoulder. “I know. I just miss you.”

I giggle. “Why?” I turn my head to nuzzle my nose into his hat.

I feel him shrug.

Worry seeps in. I stand straighter, but Eric keeps me clamped to his chest. I stare at the side of his face. “Did something happen in class?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you sure?”

Another nod.

“Well, do you wanna get lunch?”

He nods again.

He doesn’t let me go when we walk to the cafeteria. His hands slide into the pockets of my zipped up jacket. As we go through the lunch line, I see how the lunch lady’s eyes linger on Eric at my shoulder. I just smile at her and thank her like nothing’s out of the ordinary. Carrying both mine and Eric’s plates, I head for our usual table out in the quad. I put our plates down. Our friends stare at Eric the way the lunch lady did. He extracts himself from me and sits down. When I sit next to him, he puts his head on my shoulder.

“Cute,” Tweek remarks, trading a smirk with Craig.

“What’s wrong with Cartman?” Kyle asks, staring wide-eyed at Eric. His expression is a fine line between disturbed and smugly amused.

Eric says, “I miss Butters.”

Token deadpans, “What.”

I laugh a little. “I’m just as in the dark as you fellas. He just came up to me when I was at my locker and told me he misses me and wouldn’t let me go,” I explain.

Tweek smiles and looks up at Craig. “I remember those days,” he says, his tone wistful.

Craig puts an arm around him and kisses him. “It’s still those days, babe.”

“What d-days?” Jimmy wonders.

Craig says, “Those days where it’s overwhelming emotion.”

Stan guffaws. “Craig feeling emotion. Imagine that.”

Craig flips him off.

Kenny comes bounding over, looking flushed and excited with a wild spark in his eye. He collapses onto the bench next to Clyde. “Damn,” he says breathlessly. “Who needs _Playboy_  and _Sports Illustrated_  when I can have Henrietta?”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Oh, not this again. Kenny, you’ve been after her since freshman year. She still hasn’t agreed to go out with you. Let it go.”

Kenny pouts at him. “Just because I actually have a chance with a girl doesn’t mean you have to be so mean.”

“HA!” Eric exclaims as he takes a bite of his Sloppy Joe.

Kyle glares at the both of them, his face flushed with rage. Or maybe embarrassment. Kyle hasn’t had a girlfriend since fourth grade. It’s kinda sad, but he says he’s not interested in dating anyone. There was a point in sixth grade, though, where all he did was steal glances at Heidi Turner. There’s points now where me or the fellas catch him glancing up at the girls’ table behind ours where Wendy and her friends sit. Where Heidi sits.

I think back to Henrietta, who’s in my World History class. When she shows up, she’s usually got her hair half up, half down. She wears a lot of black and fishnet and sheer tops that makes it real easy to see her black bra underneath. She makes a lot of boys blush that way. I don't think she necessarily tries to though. And as I’ve heard, mostly from Kenny, she has curves for days. I ask Kenny, “What’s that gotta do with Henrietta?”

Kenny takes out his phone. He fiddles with it, then holds it out. I look at the screen, where there are pictures of a model with a similar body type to Henrietta's. The model's wearing a revealing swimsuit. I feel my cheeks grow warm. “Oh,” is all I can manage to say.

Kenny says, “They've gotta do with Henrietta because I can get a girl like that right here with Henri. I don’t have to wish for a model who’s way older than me. I just have to get Henrietta to admit she’s crazy about me.”

Eric reaches out and pushes away Kenny’s phone. “Don’t show him that,” he says, pulling me closer to him possessively. “And keep your weird fantasies with the goth bitch to yourself.”

Kenny sighs happily at his phone screen. “She’s that big tiddy goth girlfriend I need,” he says.

Kyle groans. Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. The rest laugh. Eric buries his face into my neck as I chuckle at the silly look on Kenny’s face. I wrap my arms around Eric.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t filed a restraining order against you,” Tweek says.

Kenny waves a dismissive hand. “Nah, she wouldn’t do that. She loves me. She just won’t admit it.” His eyes get all glossy as he probably starts daydreaming about Henrietta.

 

I go back to Eric’s house with him and Clyde. Up in his room, his arms are around me and he kisses my neck. I sigh at the feeling, tilting my head to let him kiss more. He trails kisses up to my lips where he lightly pecks at me. I trace the embroidered words on his pink hoodie. _In the name of love_ is what’s stitched over his heart.

Eric whispers, “I miss you.”

I still don’t know how to respond to that. He keeps kissing me. When I speak, our lips brush. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I just love you so much that I miss you.”

I feel myself blush at his words. I rest my hands on his arms around my waist. His lips are all over me. “I-I love you too,” I tell him. “Even though you missin’ me makes no sense.”

He hums in response. I cuddle into him. Eric’s always so warm and cozy. He’s like a pillow. He lost a lotta weight in middle school, but he’s still soft around the edges. He’s so handsome too. His eyes, his jaw, his nose and that bump, and his dark eyebrows. And his lips too, oh jeez. He’s changed so much since elementary. But at the same time, he’s still the same troublemaking kid who gets himself into messes. I’m just glad to be along for the ride.


	21. Butters Stotch

**Sophomore year.**

I’m lying on Eric’s bed, sketching in my notebook. The door swings open and Eric comes in. He jumps on me, putting his chin on my shoulder.

“I know what we can go as for homecoming,” he says.

Originally, Eric and I weren’t planning on going to homecoming. That was, until Wendy told us about the five hundred dollar prize for the costume contest. Homecoming this year is a few days away from Halloween, so the dance is gonna be Halloween themed. The dress code requires you to come in costume. And there’s trick or treating and a haunted library and other fun things. Eric and I have been thinking up costumes since last week. We’ve been lagging on the matter even _before_ we heard about the homecoming costume contest.

I turn my head, my nose brushing the side of his face. “What’s that?”

His eyes shine. “I go as AWESOM-O and you go as Marjorine.”

My jaw falls.

Eric chuckles. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry for the shit that I got you into with those getups, but hey, they’ll make sweet costumes. And the people we went to elementary with might get the reference.”

I put down my pencil, turning onto my back. I stare up at Eric above me. “I go as Marjorine?” I echo.

He nods. “Yeah. But, like, an older version. We should try to make it as realistic as possible. It’d be fucking _priceless_ to see if anyone thinks you’re actually a chick,” he says.

“What makes you think people’ll be convinced _I’m_ a girl?” I ask. I have short hair and a flat chest and I’m 5’9. Eric’s only half an inch taller than me, but he acts like he’s 5’10. He takes a lot of pride in the fact that he has to dip his head to kiss my mouth. And how I can only kiss his bottom lip without pressing up on my tiptoes.

Eric smirks. “Well,” he says. He leans down and his lips trace my jaw. “You got the face shape.” He kisses the scar on my eye. “And you have long dark eyelashes.” His lips brush the bridge of my nose. “You have a small enough nose.” He softly pecks at my lips. “Your lips are bigger than some girls I’ve seen.”

By now, my breathing is heavy and my whole body is hot. I can’t keep my eyes open and I squirm with Eric’s every little touch. It’s not enough. I want his hands to be all over me. But only his lips make contact with my skin. It’s torture.

He moves down to my neck. When he speaks, his voice is husky: “And your neck.”

“Your shoulders.” He kisses me there.

I wonder if he’s actually listing things off that make me look like a girl or if he’s just found the perfect excuse to kiss me everywhere.

“Your arms and hands.” He trails kisses down my arm to the palm of my hand.

“Your hips.” His hands feel the very girlish, very slight curve of my hips. I can’t hold back a moan at the touch. My pants get tighter and I know he knows when he chuckles lowly.

He slides his hands down my thighs, and when he gets there, he props up my legs. He kisses my stomach lightly where my shirt’s riding up. I moan his name. I can feel his own panting hot against my skin.

We’ve never had sex before, and dimly, I wonder if this is when it’ll finally happen. In Eric’s bedroom, in the afternoon, not knowing if we’re the only ones in the house. Sure, we’ve given each other handjobs and blowjobs, but we’ve never completely gone there. And I realize I want him to. I want him to go there.

He unbuttons my jeans. He kisses me lower and lower. I’m gasping for air by now. And when his mouth is around me, I moan. I take off his hat and run my hands deep in his hair. I moan and whine out nonsense, and Eric keeps going. His hands stay on my hips, squeezing and caressing. When the feeling becomes too overbearing, I release with a cry.

I cover my face with my hands. I always get so embarrassed and flustered when he does that. When he sits up afterwards and licks his lips clean and smirks down at me. Eric pulls my pants back around my hips. He leaves my jeans unbuttoned. He sits next to me, running his fingers through my hair. I spring up and wrap my arms around his waist. “I love you,” I tell him. I hide my face in his chest. I’m trembling, and he holds me with strong steady arms.

He rubs his nose against the curve of my jaw as a response.

I agree to go as Marjorine for homecoming after I’m done with him. He raises an eyebrow. His hand is on my waist under my shirt, his thumb moving back and forth against my skin.

I blush. “It's got nothing to do with the blowjob, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” I say. “I’ve come to the decision myself.”

Eric chuckles. “You’ve come to the decision,” he repeats.

My face gets hotter and I smack his chest.

“Anyway,” Eric says, bringing me closer to him. He twists his arm around my waist. “I’m glad you agreed because I already asked Bebe to do your makeup the night of and she already said yes.”

“Eric!” I groan. “What if I’d said no?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“And you know because?”

“Because we’ve been together for two years and you’ve been my best friend since fourth grade,” he reminds me.

I feel my face go red. “Oh yeah.”

It used to be that Kenny was Eric’s best friend. But I filled that role more often than not, so Eric switched best friends. Except that it’s one-sided because Kenny’s my best friend and I’m Kenny’s. I apologized for it once, and Eric said he didn’t care because he’s dating me, which is better than us just being friends. Though he does get a little jealous when just me and Kenny hang out together. It’s cute, nonetheless, to watch him with his arms crossed, grumbling mean things about Kenny, and me having to assure him there’s nothing between Kenny and me.

At 3 p.m. on the twenty-seventh four days later, Bebe stands over me as she does my makeup. I’ve been sitting in Eric’s desk chair for _hours_ it seems. And I’m pretty sure it _has_ been hours. I dunno how girls can do this. Bebe’s doing my eyes now, but my face feels all heavy with all the foundation and blush and contour and whatnot. I really wanna mess with my eyebrows, but she already plucked them and brushed them and colored them, and I don’t wanna mess up her work.

“Your scar makes it a little difficult to put on the eyeliner smoothly…” Bebe says in concentration. She slowly drags the eyeliner over my eyelid.

“Sorry,” is all I can think to say.

Bebe giggles. “Don’t be sorry.” Her face is so close to mine that I can smell her perfume. She already looks so pretty in her red lipstick and black wig. She’s going as Elizabeth Taylor for homecoming. Her and the girls are all going as something from Old Hollywood. Bebe whispered to me that it was Heidi that came up with the loophole to get into homecoming wearing dresses _and_ have it be part of their costumes.

Bebe pulls back and holds my face in both her hands. “Open your other eye,” she instructs. I do. She inspects my face. Then she squeals. “Yes! It’s even! On the first attempt too. That never happens with me. Okay, next is eyelashes.”

She reaches for the fake eyelashes on Eric’s desk. I watch her put glue on them. I say, “I’m starting to have a real respect for you girls and your makeup. This is a long process that requires a whole lotta patience.”

“Aw,” Bebe coos. “Thanks, Butters. That’s really sweet. Most guys don’t have _any_ appreciation for the makeup process.” She pauses, picking up the eyelashes with the cleaned tweezers she used to pluck my eyebrows. She turns back to me. “Close your eyes.” When my eyes are closed, I feel her gently press the eyelash above my own eyelashes. “What do you think Cartman and Clyde are doing? It’s really quiet.”

I keep my eyes closed, even when I feel her pull back. “Maybe they’re quietly on their phones like good boys,” I say.

Bebe laughs.

When Clyde brought Bebe over at noon, she grabbed me by my arm and took me upstairs, calling to Clyde and Eric, “Don’t come up to Cartman’s room until I say it’s okay. I want Butters’ costume to be a big reveal.”

Now she mutters, “Somehow I doubt that. I hope they’re getting ready. Or done.”

She puts on the other eyelash, then tells me to open my eyes. I can see the black lashes framing the top of my vision and it’s weird. Bebe brushes mascara on me, then she holds out a handful of lipsticks. “Pick one.”

I don’t see much of a difference in them. The shades range from red to pink to a nude.

“Oh, right,” Bebe says. “Sorry, I already forgot that you’re Butters and you don’t know the difference between matte and gloss.”

She separates three tubes from four. She holds up the three. “These are glosses.” She holds up the four. “These are matte. Matte means there’s no shine to it.”

I pick up a matte pink. “This, I suppose.”

Bebe nods in approval. “It matches with your eyeshadow too!” she exclaims. She put on rose gold eyeshadow on me.

She unscrews the lipstick and puts it on me. “You have nice lips for a boy, Butters,” she murmurs once she’s stepped back.

“Thanks. But I’ve personally never liked my lips much. I’ve always thought they were too big for a boy. Or my bottom lip anyway. The top’s fine. Not too big, not too small. But my bottom lip is a lot more plump, and I hate it.”

Bebe stares at me, dumbfounded. “Butters! Your lips are attractive! Lola was even saying how she wishes she had your lips,” she says.

“That’s why I don’t like ‘em! They’re girl lips.”

Bebe makes a clicking sound with her mouth. “Bruh, what? Shut up. They’re nice. I’m sure Cartman would agree.” She winks, and I blush and look away.

She sighs, standing up and stretching her back. “Okay. We have the makeup. Now it’s just hair and the dress.” Laid out on Eric’s bed is a blue halter dress with a frilly skirt. I tried it on when Eric made me at the mall. It was real embarrassing to have him ask the lady standing in front of the changing room if I could try the dress on.

I stand up from the chair, my left leg numb. I wince as I put my weight on it. Bebe helps me out of my shirt, keeping the neck as far away from my face as possible.

Ten minutes later, Bebe sticks her head out of Eric’s room and shouts down the stairs, “He’s ready!”

I hardly hear her as I stare at myself in the full length mirror Bebe had Clyde bring in from his parents’ room. I don’t even look like myself. I can’t tell if it’s Bebe’s extraordinary makeup skills or me, but I look like a girl honest and true. Bebe stuffed the bra with padding, and since the neck of the dress is high, you can’t even really tell it’s fake. The skirt of the dress makes my hips look bigger than they are. The hem falls just above my knees. My legs are smooth, since Bebe took me to the bathroom when she got here and shaved off the little body hair I have. The shoes are new too. They’re strappy and nude pink. The wig I’m wearing is looks so real it’s scary. It’s a shade of blonde darker than my natural hair color. It falls at my shoulders, and it’s tied back with a bow that matches the dress.

My face is so feminine that I hardly believe it’s me. The makeup is perfect. It’s the way all those girls on Instagram have their faces done. Long eyelashes, dark sculpted eyebrows, glittery eyeshadow, and matte lipstick. I numbly stare down at my nails. Bebe said she bought them from Target. They’re the glue on type. She said that a few’ll probably fall off before the night’s over. They’re pastel pink and squarish at the tips. They’re not long, which I’m thankful for. As Bebe was putting the nails on me, she was telling me how she hates long acrylic nails because they get in the way. She likes them short and rounded. But she prefers paint because the glue from acrylics are a pain to remove.

Bebe shouts again, “Assholes! I said Butters is ready! Don’t make me come down there and drag you up by your deaf ears!”

After she says that, I hear scrambling and footsteps. Eric appears first, Clyde close behind him. When Eric sees me, he goes slack-jawed. Clyde laughs at his reaction. Clyde looks me over. He tilts his head and says, “Huh.”

Bebe grabs my hands when I move to knock them together. “Isn’t he pretty, _Cartman_?” she asks.

Eric works his jaw, but no words come out.

Clyde instead says, “You look very convincing.”

Bebe purses her lips at him. “Bruh, I was asking if he looks _pretty_ , not if he looks convincing.”

Clyde shrugs, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Me calling someone pretty is reserved for you, cool beans,” he says nonchalantly.

Bebe beams, “Back at ya, sweet pea,” and lets go of me to kiss Clyde’s cheek. I still can’t believe they aren’t dating yet. I glance at Eric and rock back on my heels when I see he’s still staring. I can’t help knocking my knuckles together.

Then he finally says, “What the fuck.” He walks forward and put his hands low on my hips. I shiver under his touch. He looks me up and down.

“I can’t believe the two of you aren’t in your costumes yet,” Bebe mutters.

“Hey, my costume is just a mask,” Clyde defends.

“I really mean Cartman. He still needs to get into his cardboard robot body,” she clarifies. I watch her red lips quirk up. “Earth to Cartman. Say something.”

Eric’s right hand travels down my hip. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Then his hands are under my skirt. I squeak at the feeling of his fingers on my bottom. His face finally shows some emotion when he starts feeling the fabric of the underwear I’m wearing. He’s amused when he lifts the skirt. “Panties?” he says, eyes on the small black shorts I’m wearing. “Whose idea was this? Yours or Bebe’s?” He raises an eyebrow at Bebe.

She just shrugs. “He couldn’t wear his boxers. That would be too breezy with the dress. So he’s wearing boyshorts,” she explains.

“Boyshorts?” Clyde echos. “Girls wear panties that are called _boyshorts_?”

“Yeah. We also wear a type of jeans called boyfriend jeans.”

In my reflection in the mirror, I also stare at the boyshorts. Thankfully, they cover my whole bottom, but it stops there. It’s also edged with black lace at the leg holes. It’s obvious it’s supposed to be a garment for women. I don’t even know how Bebe knew my size when she brought them over.

My face heats up when I realize everyone’s staring at my boyshorts. I take the skirt from Eric’s hands and put it down. “All right, that’s enough,” I say.

Eric walks out of the room, saying nothing. Clyde calls after him, “Where are you going?”

From the hallway, Eric replies, “The bathroom.”

Clyde cackles and Bebe giggles. Clyde taunts, “Why? Are you gonna go jerk off?”

“Yep,” Eric says. We hear the bathroom door close and lock.

Clyde and Bebe’s laughter stops abruptly and they stare wide-eyed at me in shock. I blush redder. I smooth the skirt. I clear my throat.

Bebe smiles and says, “Okay, Butters. Rules. If you’re gonna convince someone you’re a girl, you have to act like one. First thing: don’t touch your face too much. Your makeup will get all screwed. Second: try not to fuss with your hair. Third: whatever you do, _do not_ pick a wedgie unless you know _for sure_ nobody’s around. I hate boyshorts because they always ride up. So don’t pick your wedgie. And don’t lift your skirt, and don’t let _anyone_ lift your skirt. That’s slutty and perverted. Oh! And don’t manspread. You’re wearing a skirt, so keep your knees together. I think that’s all.”

I nod. “O-okay. Sounds easy enough.”

Bebe admires me like a proud mother. “You look so pretty, Butters. Or should I say Marjorine?”

 

Clyde drops Bebe off at Wendy’s house. He has his permit, but if the goth kids have been driving around without adult supervision since they were in fourth grade, then I’m sure Clyde driving around without an adult is fine. I can’t even try for a permit because of my left eye. I’m not completely blind, but the DMV said they don’t wanna take any chances. Bebe departs with a wave to me and Eric and a kiss to Clyde’s cheek. When Clyde drives off again, Eric says, “God, just date already.”

Clyde responds, “I’m just gonna pretend I didn’t hear you.”

We pick up Token and Kevin next. Token gets into the front seat and Kevin sits to my left. He stares at me. I can’t see his eyes behind his LED _Purge_ mask. His is blue, Clyde’s is red, and Token’s is purple. Kevin points to me. “Who’s this?” he asks.

Token turns in his seat. His mask is on top of his head. His eyes find me immediately and his brows press together. Eric, Clyde, Bebe, and I didn’t tell any of my friends that I’m going to homecoming as a girl.

Eric says, “It’s Butters. Who else?”

Token looks skeptical. “ _That’s_ Butters?”

Eric looks at me, but I can’t see his face behind his cardboard robot head. “I think this is going to be _really_ fun when we get to the dance. I can’t wait to see the look on Kyle’s face.”

Kenny, Henrietta, and Kyle are the only ones waiting for us in the cafeteria, our meeting spot. Kenny’s a cult leader, his skull cow head off. Henrietta’s Raven from _Teen Titans._ Kyle’s the Mad Hatter. The others haven’t arrived. When I stand with Eric in the cafeteria in front of the table the three are sitting at, they have no idea who I am. Kenny even flashes me a flirty grin and I feel myself blush. When Kyle finally figures it out, Kenny’s face turns pink. Henrietta smirks at him.

Once everybody arrives, we go out to the quad and form our own little dance circle. The music’s pretty good. It’s remixed Halloween music, so it’s real festive. Eric doesn’t dance. He holds my hands and sways to the beat of the music, but otherwise, he fits for judging Kyle sorta-dancing with Heidi, who’s dressed as Audrey Hepburn. I squeeze his hand with a glare.

“Be nice, Eric,” I say.

I can only imagine his amused smirk under his cardboard robot head. This AWESOM-O costume is real similar to the one in fourth grade.

Kyle and Heidi got together not long ago. Eric was ecstatic when they made it official. He’s so cute with other people’s relationships.

When the Halloween music passes and the more dancey music starts, Craig says to me, “Hey, Cartman. Butters.”

Eric and I turn to him and Tweek. Craig’s standing behind his boyfriend, with his arms crossed in front of Tweek. Their gay flags tied around their shoulders flutter in the wind.

Tweek shouts over the music, “We dare you to grind on each other for at least thirty seconds of this song, and Craig and I will give you five dollars.”

My jaw falls. Eric asks, “From each of you?”

Craig nods. He trades a smirk with Tweek.

Eric’s hands find my bottom again, and I blush as he reels me in close until my back hits his chest. He starts rolling into me with the beat of the song. I gulp, not knowing what to do. The feeling of him gyrating into me stuns me into stillness. Eric’s costume is only a robot head and torso. He’s wearing black jeans and his Converse, otherwise. And I’m wearing boyshorts and a dress.

Eric tells me, “Just push back.”

Slowly, I bump him back. This is real naughty and our friends are starting to take out their phones and record us and cheer us on. As I become more sure of myself, flowing with the music and movements, Eric starts cracking up and I laugh with him. To humor him, I put my hands on my knees and slowly circle my hips around.

“ _Damnnn_ ,” Eric groans.

He pulls me back up and continues grinding against me, this time with purpose. He starts singing along to the Spanish parts. I think it’s swell he can speak it so nicely. It sounds so pretty, even though I have no idea what he’s saying, since I take ASL and he takes Spanish.

Right when I feel something start to poke at my behind and bring a startled blush to my cheeks, Eric pulls back. I feel absent without his arms wrapped around my waist. He lifts his robot head and wipes away his tears of laughter. He says to Tweek and Craig, “Okay, there. We did it. Now give us our five bucks.”

Craig and Tweek smirk as they hand us our money. Craig gives Eric and I fives, and Tweek gives us the other half.

After that, we walk through the haunted library. It’s dark, but pale lights from little ghosts on the bookshelves light up our winding path. Eric and I are in the middle of our large group. Kyle and Heidi are in front of us. Annie as Marilyn Monroe hanging off the arm of the quite literal cereal killer Jimmy are behind us. At little openings in between the shelves, some student volunteers dressed up jump at us. It’s more funny than scary.

What makes me jump, though, is when I feel a hand up my dress skirt and squeeze my bottom. Eric chuckles, staring at me rather than the haunted library around us.

I whisper to him, “You’re a handsy little robot, ain’t you?”

Instead of saying something back, he traces the lace lining of the boyshorts. “And you have a bubble butt, huh?”

I start, blinking at his robot head as heat blooms across my cheeks. “Eric!” I take his hand from under the dress and keep it captive in my hand. "What's that even s'posed to mean?"

I can feel his smirk radiating through his cardboard AWESOM-O costume.

We leave the haunted library and make our way over to the B-hall where the trick or treating is. Before we enter, a few students hand each of us Halloween themed paper bags. We spread out throughout the dimly lit hall so we don’t clump at the doors and create lines. Eric sticks by my side the whole time, and I catch him taking glimpses at me when I take glimpses at him. His eyes through the eye holes in his robot head glint orange in the light. After our fourth door, I lunge at Eric, pinning him against the wall. I take off his robot head, revealing his face and hair wavy from his sweat. I drop the head at our feet and we meet in the middle.

Eric takes my face in his hands as he devours my lips as I attack him in retaliation. Our breathing’s already heavy. We kiss aggressively, with biting and licking and sucking. I curve into him as he leans off the wall, tilting me back. He pulls back slightly, breathing into me. Our eyes lock and we’re about to kiss again when Bebe down the hall shouts, “Butters!”

I look to her. She waves me over. I let go of Eric and walk over to her. She grins wide at me. She shares a look with Clyde behind her. “What?” I say.

Bebe rubs my chin. She shows me her thumb, the tip pink. “Your lipstick is all smudged. It’s a shock too, because matte doesn’t usually come off easily.” There’s an edge of amusement in her voice.

I find myself glancing over my shoulder at Eric sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. His mouth’s all pink too. I turn to Bebe and Clyde. “Goodness gracious!” I gasp dramatically.

Bebe and Clyde snicker. I make my way back to Eric, who’s glowering at Kyle wrapped up in Heidi’s arms for something Kyle said to him. I recapture Eric’s attention by sitting in his lap and kissing him greedily. He breaks away to whisper, “Let’s go.”

The two simple words send me thrumming with electricity and anticipation. I climb off Eric. He gets to his feet, picking up AWESOM-O’s head. He calls down the hall, “Hey, Clyde, Butters and I are gonna go.”

“But they still haven’t announced the costume winner,” he says.

Eric shrugs. “Fuck it. We’re going. I’m taking the car, so find another way home.” He takes my hand and leads me away.

Kenny shouts to us, “Use protection!”

Eric throws up a middle finger over his shoulder.

The drive is in silence. The walk up to Eric’s room is quiet. His parents are out on a date. The house is dark. Eric leaves the lights off, even the ones in his room. I stand in the middle of the room, taking off the wig. I toss it onto Eric’s desk, tousling my flattened hair. Bebe left her glue remover here and walked me through how to take off the lashes. I tug at the lashes. I drop the remover onto a cotton ball and wipe off the glue sticking to my real lashes. It comes off easily. I do the other. I go past Eric taking off his own costume and into the bathroom to scrub my face.

I stare at myself in the mirror, water dripping off my nose. I look like a boy again. My face anyway. I still have the dress on. I towel off and go back into Eric’s room. He’s stripped down to his T-shirt and boxers.

“Can you unzip this please?” I ask softly. I face my back to him. His hands are steady when he drags the zipper down. I slide it off my shoulders and let it crumple to the floor. I unhook the bra, feeling silly in it without the dress to cover it.

Eric’s hands land on my waist. His lips find my neck. Just like at homecoming, his hips roll into mine. This time, there’s no music. Just hot skin and heavy breathing. It's all the music we need. I bump him back, craving movement. We dance our way over to the bed, where he lays me down. I wrap my arms around his neck as he continues to make our hips meet. I press back, moaning.

He rubs against me faster and harder, groaning into my ear, whispering my name. Sweat pricks up on my skin. The thin material of our underwear leaves little to the imagination. I can feel him. The hem of his shirt brushes my stomach. I moan loudly, arching my back involuntarily. We cum together.

Eric collapses, rolling next to me. Kissing my face, he grazes his thumb over the waistband of the boyshorts. Panting, he asks, “You don’t have to return these to Bebe, right?”

“I don’t think I can after that,” I reply, just as breathless.

He kisses my nose. “Good. I like it on you.”

My laugh comes out as a sigh. “Kenny always said you might have that fetish.”

“What? What fetish?”

“Seein’ me in girl clothes.”

“What? Since when?”

I think back. “Let’s see, there’s Marjorine in fourth grade, Marjorine now, that one time you dressed me up as Courtney Love, and that other time during that election you put me in a hula skirt and coconut bra.”

Eric snorts. “Yeah, well, Kenny thinks he knows everything about sex just because he lost his virginity in eighth grade.”

“But it kinda does. If he lost his virginity in eighth grade, that means he did somethin’ right.”

“Whatever,” he mutters. “I don’t have a fetish. That’s the bottom line.”

“It’s okay, Eric. And even if you did, I wouldn’t care. Unless it was real odd. Like _Fifty Shades_ odd.”

He’s silent. Then he says, “Fine. Call me daddy when we do this again.”

I choke on the air. I turn onto my side and gape at him. He smirks, petting my cheek. He kisses me on my open mouth, drawing me to his chest. “I’m kidding,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " 'Cause every time I see you, I don't wanna behave  
> I'm tired of being patient, so let's pick up the pace  
> Take me all the way..."  
> -Touch It


	22. Butters Stotch

**Sophomore year.**

I wake to a persistent buzzing. My head is groggy as I try to make sense of where I am and what’s happening. It’s dark. There’s a weight around my waist. I’m shirtless and wearing underwear that’s too short and sticky. I reach for the sound, my hand closing around my phone on a bedside table. I answer whoever’s calling me. I yawn. “Hello?” I whisper.

“Butters!”

The sound of my dad’s angry voice jolts me into full consciousness. I realize I’m in Eric’s room, and his arm is around me as he sleeps. The stickiness in the boyshorts is dried cum. A quick glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s 12:14 a.m. “Oh crap! I musta fallen asleep!” I mutter.

“What?! Fallen asleep where?” Dad continues, “Where are you, young man? You were supposed to be home two hours ago! It is _long_ past your curfew! You had your mother and I worried sick when you didn’t pick up the first two times!”

I scramble out of Eric’s warm bed and search for my clothes. They’re on his desk chair and I hurriedly put on my jeans and shirt. I say, “S-sorry, sir. I lost track of time. I’ll be home as soon as possible—”

“Butters?”

I turn around. Eric’s sat up, the right side of his hair flattened from the pillow. “Eric,” I whisper. In my rush I musta woken him.

“ _Who_?” Dad says on the other line. His voice sounds even angrier.

“N-nothin’, sir. I’ll be home soon. I—I gotta go.” I hang up before Dad can continue. I zip up and button my jeans.

Eric starts chuckling. “On the day _this_ happens is when your parents have to notice you gone.” His head falls back to the pillow. He sighs. “Next time we do this for real, make sure your parents know to not expect you back home right after.”

I blush at the thought of _next time for real_. “I really do gotta go.” I hurry over to the side of Eric’s bed. I lean down to kiss him. He hums beneath my lips, too tired to kiss back.

“You’re gonna walk home? In the middle of the night?” he asks.

“I’ll run,” I tell him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be grounded.”

“And I’ll sneak in. Keep your window unlocked.”

I grin and walk across the room. I open the bedroom door. “G’night.”

“Just go,” he murmurs, turning over onto his other side. He pulls the blankets up to his chin.

I sprint as quietly as I can out of his house and down the sidewalk. When I’m a few houses away from my house, I realize I left my jacket. It’s fine. Eric will probably bring it tomorrow. In front of my door, I debate even going in at all. My parents’ll be awful sore at me. But if I keep stalling, I’ll get grounded for longer. With a deep breath, I take my key from my jeans and open the door.

My parents are standing with their arms crossed, leaning against the back of the couch. Their faces are pinched in anger. They haven’t even spoken and I already feel defeated.

“I cannot believe this deliberate disobedience, Butters,” Dad says. “Your mother was about to call the police. Would you have wanted that? To have the police come looking for you?”

I shake my head, pressing my knuckles together.

Mom says, “What is your excuse for coming home so late?”

I open my mouth to tell them the truth, but the truth is anything but what they want to hear. So I lie: “Th-the fellas and I went out to get somethin’ to eat after—afterwards and we lost track of time.”

Dad raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And was Eric Cartman a part of this?”

I stammer silently. “I—well, yeah. He—he’s our friend so… but he didn’t do nothing bad. We just—”

Mom holds out her hand. I put my phone in her open palm. Then she points to the stairs. They don’t need to say anything for me to get the gist. Hanging my head, I go up to my room. As I’m opening the door, I hear Dad call up, “You’re grounded for two weeks.”

Mom and Dad leave for church at ten, leaving me locked up in my room with nothing to do but draw and paint and read. I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, painting a sunflower down my left forearm with my acrylics. I’ve _been_ doing this since after breakfast.

My window opens, and Eric tumbles in. He grumbles to himself as he gets to his feet. He pushes up his glasses on his nose. He goes over to my desk and drops into the chair. “Your parents are gone, right?” he asks.

I go back to my painting. “Yeah. They’re at church.”

“How long is your sentence this time?”

“Two weeks.”

“So no trick or treating?”

I shake my head.

“Yeah. Maybe that’s best. We _are_ starting to get disapproving looks, after all,” Eric says. “But, damn, they don’t have to ask why we’re trick or treating at sixteen. Bunch of assholes,” he mutters.

“I left my jacket at your house last night,” I tell him.

“Oh right.” Eric unties my light blue jacket around his waist and tosses it at me. I glare at him when it narrowly misses my arm. He chuckles and mouths _Sorry_.

Eric says, “We should go somewhere. Before I have to meet the guys at one.”

“I’m grounded, remember? I can’t leave my room,” I remind him.

Eric shrugs. “And? Unless there’s some magical force field keeping you in, it seems to me that you can leave anytime you want as long as your parents don’t find out. C’mon. Let’s go. We still have forty-five minutes.”

With a sigh, I get to my feet. I follow Eric out the window, and he helps me to the ground. I don’t let him let go of my hand when we start walking. “I hope you have a plan as to where to go during these forty-five minutes,” I say.

Eric smirks. “We should go out to eat. I was thinking KFC.”

I throw my head back laughing. “I shoulda known.”

Eric lifts our joined hands, facing my forearm and the sunflower up. It’s still drying. He points to it, saying, “This is cool.”

I scrutinize the sunflower, starting from my wrist and ending at the crook of my elbow. I painted three. Two growing from the stem, one at my wrist. The green stems intertwine.

“Thanks, Eric.”

At the KFC, Eric orders a bucket of chicken to share between us. Since we only have enough money for one soda, we share a Mountain Dew. We sit at a booth by the window in the morning sunlight. I didn’t expect to be eating Kentucky Fried Chicken so early in the morning, but with Eric, everything’s unpredictable.

“So about last night,” Eric starts.

“Which part? Me leavin’ or what happened before that?” I ask sarcastically.

Eric licks crumbs off his fingers. “Before you left.”

I sit back and nibbling at my drumstick. “I was thinkin’ about that last night. And this morning when I woke up,” I mumble. “Sorry it was so… weird.”

“Stop apologizing for nothing,” he says.

“Sor—oh. J-just continue with what you were saying,” I say.

Eric chuckles. “Yeah. Anyway. I don’t think it was weird. I… liked it. It was intimate, or whatever. And I wasn’t half asleep when I suggested we should do it with our pants off next time.”

The last part makes me stare at him wide and blush. “Eric!” I hiss. “Not so loud!”

He only smirks. He leaves me with a red face when he checks his phone. “We have ten minutes until your parents get back. We should go.”

We clean up our table. Eric refills our drink with Dr Pepper this time. As we walk down the street, Eric and I trade the soda between us. Eric scrunches up his nose after he takes a sip. “Dr Pepper is an… acquired taste,” he says.

I laugh, leaning into his side. “Thanks for taking me out. I didn’t really wanna be stuck in my room all day.”

Eric’s arm goes around my waist. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep busting you out of there.”

I smile around the straw. “Who won the costume contest?” I ask.

“Kenny. But he deserves it, I guess,” he says.

Back up in my room, Eric stands by the window, watching the door for my parents. I sit on my bed next to his legs, watching as my parents’ car rolls into the driveway. The car parks, the engine dies, and Mom and Dad step out. They unlock the door, and when it opens, Eric bends down and presses a kiss to my mouth.

“Later,” he says, a leg already out the window.

“See ya.”

And he’s gone.

I hear footsteps up the stairs. I spot the Dr Pepper on my desk and quickly hide it in my bookshelf. Right as the door opens, I sit in my desk chair with a book opened before me.

“Did you finish your homework?” Dad asks.

I nod, keeping my eyes on the printed words in the book. “I finished it on Friday before the dance.”

Dad harrumphs and closes the door. I sit back in the chair, letting out a breath of relief. I take the Dr Pepper from between my _Percy Jackson_ books and take cool sips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Just say goodnight and go..."  
> -goodnight n go


	23. Eric Cartman

**Sophomore year.**

“I want a new phone,” I tell Mom as she makes dinner.

The kitchen smells like tilapia. I sit at the dining table, staring at my old phone in front of me. I’ve had it since sixth grade, and the battery is wack. At one point, it’ll be at seventy percent, and the next thing I know it’s dead. I wait for a minute, and it turns back on, at twenty percent. Stupid thing.

“That’s fair,” she says.

I sit up, staring at her back. “Really? Cool, because I was thinking that I’d get the newest iPhone—”

Mom cuts me off with a wag of her finger. “Oh, no, Eric. I’m not getting it for you. You have to buy it yourself,” she says.

My jaw drops. “How am I supposed to afford that?” I ask her.

“Get a job. You’re old enough.”

I snap my mouth shut. A job? Tweek and Kenny are the only one of my friends who have jobs. Tweek works at his parents’ coffee shop, and Kenny works at City Wok and Tweek Bros. None of my other friends have _jobs._ And Clyde’s my brother, so him working at Dad’s shoe store doesn’t count.

“Where am I supposed to get a _job_?” I say.

Mom checks the oven. “Your dad has a shoe store at the mall, doesn’t he?”

I splay my fingers on the table. I debate the matter. Get a job and make money for a new phone, or not get a job and keep my wack phone until I get older and eventually have to get a job anyway.

“What if he doesn’t hire me?” I say.

Mom looks up at me. “Eric, don’t be silly. He’s your dad. He hired Clyde last year, so he’ll hire you. And it’s the end of November. Christmas is coming up soon, so a lot of people will be shopping. You might make a few extra bucks if you get the job now.”

I press my fingers into my eyes. I really don’t want to get a fucking job. But I _really_ want a new phone. “Okay fine. I’ll ask him,” I say. I get up from the table and go into the living room, where Dad and Clyde are watching TV. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I work at your store at the mall?”

Both Dad and Clyde look at me. “Sure,” Dad says. “But I’ll still have to interview you.”

I sit on the couch next to Clyde, my phone already out and on Instagram. “Cool,” I say.

 

“I think you’d be suited for going around the store and helping people out,” Dad says. “You know, asking if they need anything and helping them get their shoe size.”

I shake my head. “No. That sounds lame. I don’t wanna help people. I’d rather sit at the register and press buttons all day.”

Clyde says, “No, Eric. I think it’d be a good position for you too. All you have to do is go around and convince people to try to buy the shoes. Like this one time a few weeks ago, these girls came in, and one asked me if the shoes looked good on her. I said they did. She started crying and insisted that I was lying, and her and her friends ran out of the store without buying anything. Your silver tongue is perfect for the job.”

I look at my brother. “You had me at ‘convince’,” I say.

Dad and Clyde’s faces break out in grins.

I work Mondays and Wednesdays, Clyde works Tuesdays and Thursdays. All week, Dad’s there. You’d think having your dad watch you work would be nerve-wracking, except that it’s not. Dad’s always been chill, and me working at his store is no different. When no one’s in the store, or if no one needs my help, and everything is neat and tidy, Dad lets me sit around and go on my phone until a customer comes in.

When my friends asked me if I wanted to accompany them to go play video games at Stan’s the following Wednesday, they were shocked to hear me say I couldn’t because I was working that day. Kyle was stunned to a loss of words, Stan shrugged, and Kenny squeezed my shoulder and told me he was proud of me for finally growing up and being responsible about something.

So now at school, if I ever want to complain about work, I can go to Kenny, who gets it since he’s had two jobs since seventh grade.

“How do you do it?” I ask him. We’re sitting on the bleachers at the football field. “Maintaining school and homework and a social life and taking care of your sister _and_ dying all the time?”

He laughs, taking a drag of his cigarette. I hate how he smokes. He doesn’t do it all the time like the goths, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be against it. Kenny’s smoking habit being gross is one of the few things Kyle and I agree on. I’ve never been big on smoking and drinking and drugs. Except for that one time Butters and I vaped in fourth grade, but that was once. There’s no point otherwise. All it does is fuck up your brain and your life in the future. I don’t see the appeal of dying prematurely. But then again, Kenny can’t die so he doesn’t have to worry about that.

“I dunno. It must be another one of my powers,” he jokes.

I roll my eyes. “Ha ha. Funny.” I watch him tap off ashes from his cigarette. “When _did_ you start smoking? Ever since you developed an interest for Henrietta, I presume?”

Kenny snorts. “Kinda. You know I’d do anything to get her to date me,” he says. “And to see her tattoo, of course.”

“Anything as in smoking, getting a fake ID to get into a bar, and getting a tongue piercing,” I add.

He nods. “Yup.” He flashes me his tongue and the silver ball in the center.

“You have too many piercings, you edgy bastard,” I comment.

“Do I?” He runs his fingers over his earrings. “Let’s see. I have three in each earlobe. So that’s six. Then I have my cartilage ones.” He touches the two rings at the top of his left ear. “That’s eight. And my tongue piercing. So nine. Hm. I guess I do have quite a lot.”

“You do too much to try to impress Henrietta,” I say.

Kenny stomps out his cigarette, _finally._ “Nah. I pierced my lobes in middle school. Then my cartilage in freshman year, and now my tongue. Not _all_ of it is influenced by her.”

“Uh-huh. And Henrietta has _how_ many piercings?” I ask.

“She’s got her septum, two in each earlobe, her industrial, and her belly button. Seven,” he answers. “But you can’t judge us, because Stan’s got his ears, and Kyle’s got his nose.”

I picture Stan’s dumb black studs. And Kyle’s little diamond in his nostril. “Are Butters and I the only ones who haven’t punctured holes in our bodies yet?” I say.

“Yeah. Why? Are you feeling left out? I could pierce you. Free of charge. I did Stan’s,” he says.

“Ha. No way. I’m not letting you near me or Butters with a piercing gun.”

Kenny grins, exposing the large gap in his top left row of teeth. “Aww. You’re the protective type, aren’t you?” he teases.

“Shut up.”

Kenny laughs. “Seriously, you don’t have to be ashamed of being in love with Leo, dude. Everyone already knows you’re whipped.”

“I know that,” I snap. “And why do you have to call him Leo all the fucking time?”

“Why should I use an old preschool nickname you came up with because you couldn’t remember Leopold and thought it was stupid?” he replies.

My mouth twitches in a scowl. I’ve asked the question before, and the answer he gives me is always the same. At first, before he knew Butters and I were dating, he would just get pissy with me. But now I think he has a little more understanding of where I’m coming from. But he still calls Butters Leo, even if he does know. It ticks me off.

The bell rings, signaling that lunch is over. Kenny and I pick up our backpacks and start walking to English. Our group was all over the place today. Half were with their girlfriends, the other half at club meetings. Even Butters ditched out on me to go to his art club meeting. I’m gonna get him back for that. He’s not leaving my side for the rest of the damn day.


	24. Eric Cartman

**Summer.**

It’s one of those weird days that really make me question why I'm friends with the idiots I'm friends with. The days when the guys and I hang out at Stan’s house, and all we end up doing is playing video games and talking about our love lives. I don’t know how the fuck it first started, but I only let it happen because I can rip on my friends’ tastes in girls. Otherwise, it’s totally fucking dumb.

“I had a feeling you and Heidi fucked back in February,” Kenny muses from the couch next to Butters.

Kyle’s face turns red.

I snicker. “So you finally got to see the magic of Heidi’s vagina.”

Kyle says, “Shut up, Cartman. You only saw her vagina back in fourth grade when she flashed it to you. You didn’t—” He shuts his mouth and turns redder. He averts his gaze from us to his green socks.

We all laugh, but Stan laughs the loudest. “Dude,” he gasps. “That means you were the first of us to have sex in high school. I mean, sure Kenny got some back in eighth grade, but he’s been so focused on Henrietta that he hasn’t thought of trying to fuck anyone else. Wendy and I are waiting until we’re seventeen, and Cartman and Butters haven’t either. Unless they have and they won’t tell us.”

Kyle, Kenny, and Stan turn to me and Butters. We just shrug in response. Butters says, “We haven’t. Don’t worry. Kyle’s still got the title for the first time in high school.”

Kenny says, “That’s true though, huh? Kyle’s the first to get some in our high school years. Well, until I finally got Henrietta to go out with me back in June. Congrats though, Kyle. Now, to the real question: was it vaginal or oral? Because if it was oral it doesn’t count. If it was both, that’s double points.”

“Or anal,” I add with a smirk.

Stan and Kenny groan, but they’re grinning. I hear Stan mutter, “Cartman, you gay-ass.”

Kyle gives us individual glares. If he wasn’t so red, it might be intimidating. “That’s none of your fucking business. Now fuck off,” he snaps.

“Hm, touchy,” I observe.

“Just answer the question, Ky. It’s not a big deal,” Stan says.

Kyle throws up his hands. “Yes it is! It’s a private thing that doesn’t need to be shared, even with you dumbasses. And either way, Butters, shouldn’t you be worried about the way your boyfriend is talking about Heidi like this?”

Butters looks at me. “Should I be worried that you’re talking about Heidi’s vagina?” he asks.

I snort. “No. I’m gay, remember?”

To Kyle, Butters says, “No, I ain’t worried.”

Kenny says, “Stop dodging the question and just answer it. We swear we won’t tell anyone, _right_?” He looks at each of us.

Me, Stan, and Butters nod and voice our agreements.

Kenny flourishes a hand to Kyle. “See? Nothing to worry about. And if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll talk about my sexual exploits, then we can move onto you.” He talks at all of us. “On the last week of school, I got Henri to go out with me after our last class. Fast forward to nighttime, and I finally saw her tattoos. She’s got Medusa on her leg, and much to my surprise, she had a sideboob tattoo too. It was cursive and it said, ‘All roses have thorns.’ We fucked, I stayed the night, we woke up, fucked again, the end.”

Kyle covers his face with his hand. He sighs. “Did you really think that’d help me?”

“Yeah. Why? Do you need more stories from our sex lives? Cartman, Leo, wanna share your experiments with BJ’s and handies?” Kenny asks.

Kenny’s good at making people embarrassed, and this is no exception. Butters and I both blush, exclaiming at the same time, “No!”

Kenny moves onto Stan. “You have something to share or are you too busy keeping it Christian between you and Wendy?”

“Wendy’s an atheist, so I wouldn’t call it Christian. But yes, we’re waiting until we’re seventeen, like Chef—bless his soul—said. So I have nothing to share,” Stan says.

“Well, Kyle, it’s your turn to share now,” Kenny says.

“Why can Cartman and Butters pass but I can’t?” he shrieks.

Kenny puts a hand on his shoulder. “Kyle, do you really want to hear about Cartman blowing Leo or vice versa?”

“No.”

“Then I rest my case.”

Kyle stays silent. He stares straight ahead at the TV screen and the paused video game we were playing. He rolls the joysticks around the controller, making his icon circle around the screen.

I roll my eyes. “Would you just quit being a pussy and admit you ate _her_ pussy?” I snap.

Kyle freezes, his blush returning full-force. He stares at me with wide eyes, and I can tell he’s about to ask _How’d you know?_ The rest of the three turn to Kyle.

Butters starts, “Is it true, Kyle? Did you stick your face between Heidi’s legs and—”

Kyle’s expression turns distant for a moment before he shouts, “Stop! Just stop it!” He shoots to his feet and marches into the kitchen. I grin at Butters. He grins back. He’s such an asshole. I love it. From the kitchen, Kyle shouts, “Cartman’s a bad influence on you, Butters!” he says. “Look what you’re saying!”

“No he’s not,” he argues.

“Yes he is,” says Kenny.

“Yes he is,” says Stan.

“Yes I am,” I say.

“But I guess he did eat her out,” Kenny muses, high fiving Butters.

“Yeah but he obviously had _sex_ sex with her too,” Stan says.

From the kitchen, Kyle barks, “Stan!”

Stan smiles. “Sorry, sorry.” He gets up and goes into the kitchen. We hear him tell Kyle, “You’re my super best friend, dude. I know everything about you even when you don’t tell me.”

Kyle grumbles something I can’t make out. Stan laughs, and then Kyle’s laughing. I scoff at their exchange. I imagine them hugging it out, even though it’s unlikely. And even though both of them have girlfriends, that doesn’t mean the Style fan page is running dry of gay content.

Most of these stupid-ass goddamn girl talks are about sex. And it’s usually Kenny’s fault. Like I said, I only go with it to make fun of their girlfriends. And because talking about this shit makes Kyle so fucking triggered.


	25. Eric Cartman

**Summer.**

For the second day of August, the weather is very July. It’s hot, the air clammy, even with the moon in the sun’s place. But maybe me straddling Butters with my hands up his shirt has something to do with it. His cheeks are speckled red, his fingers tangled in my hair. His breathing in my ear is irregular.

As per usual, his parents are out late. I came around his house at seven after hanging out with the guys. We watched a movie, had some snacks. Went up to his room, put on music. Teased each other with quick pecks and taunting looks. The kisses got heavier. I lowered him onto his back. And here we are.

My lips are sucking on his neck as my fingers explore his chest. He moans underneath me. I shift, creating friction and more sounds from him. He’s hard, but I’m in no place to judge.

“Please, Eric,” he whimpers.

I grin, biting his neck. “Please, what? What do you want me to do?”

“Just— _please_.”

I lightly trace my way down to his ass, squeezing, making him squirm. I press my nose to his. His eyes are unfocused as he looks up at me. “If you’re gonna beg,” I whisper huskily, “beg right.” I kiss the spot under his left ear.

Butters moans. His hands wander down to my neck, beneath the collar of my shirt, to my back where he digs his nails into my skin. “Please,” he breathes. I swirl my tongue over his neck. “I want you. I want you to—to, oh, Eric! Just make me yours.” He groans. "I dunno! All I know is that I want you, and I want you to want _me_."

I stop. My lips leave his skin. I sit up, staring down at him. He looks like a hot and bothered mess. Desperate too. A hot and bothered _desperate_ mess.

"You'll get better at begging," I say. I lean down and plant a soft kiss to his mouth. It’s an abrupt change from the rough and burning kisses we’ve been stealing back and forth. I feel him startle from it. Lady Gaga plays in the background, but I can’t make out which song it is.

I take off his shirt first. I kiss every piece of his exposed skin, leaving him to shiver and tremble under me. I roll his shark tooth necklace between my fingers. Butters tugs at my own shirt, and I see a flash of red, and it’s off. I’m pudgy, and heaven is in his eyes. He touches me, leaving no part of my torso undiscovered.

I kiss him firmly, parting with a loud smack. It’s a blur as I undo his jeans. He lifts his hips off the bed to help me take them off. Our hands fumble. I glance at his boxers, smirking. “Too bad you aren’t wearing those panties from homecoming.” I sigh, snapping the waistband of his boxers, making him yelp. “But this’ll just have to do. You still like getting your snootch pounded on Friday nights?”

Butters laughs breathlessly. “It’s Tuesday, Eric.”

I snort into his collarbone, flicking my tongue out and licking the dip between neck and shoulder. “That, and you don’t have a snootch,” I point out.

“That too.”

Then my sweatpants are gone and we’re back to laying together in our boxers. But we aren’t going to stop there. We had a goal in mind when I pinned him to the bed and took off his unlaced white Converse. “Lights,” I order gruffly.

Butters reaches over to his bedside table and switches off the fairy lights, dousing the room in darkness. It’s a good thing that we decided to leave only that light on, because if we had them all on, that totally would’ve killed the mood. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I sling off his boxers, dropping them to the floor. I feel him up in the dark. He moans.

“Condom,” I demand.

He holds it to my chest. I lose my own boxers, rolling it over myself. Everything sharpens, but at the same time, the shit happening is muddled. I’m stretching him out, Butters whimpering that I don’t have to, but at the same time grinding his hips into my hand. Then I’m inside him, and it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever felt. I’m moving into him, and his hips are jerking back. Our breathing is loud and the music is quiet. My lips stay on his neck, his fingers stay scratching down my back. We’re both sweating and breathing erratically.

I press into him a little further, and he starts screaming nonsense and arching and digging his nails into my skin. “Sweet spot,” I pant.

I thrust harder, right there, more nonsense spilling past his lips. He cums with a moaned, “Eric…” The sound is music to my ears, and I let go with a moan of my own.

We lie together, Butters cuddled up to my chest. He smells like sweat, and I know I’m no different. “I love you,” he murmurs, kissing my mouth.

“I love you too.”

 

I blink awake, the sun in my eyes. As the grogginess of sleep leaves me, I see Butters is awake, his back to me at the foot of the bed. He’s feeding his hamsters, and he’s standing there in his boxers—the white ones with the red hearts. He has my red shirt on. His hair is a mess.

My moan turns him around. “Did I wake you?” he asks softly. He climbs back into bed beside me.

I wrap my arms around him. “No. But I wanna fuck you all over again when you’re looking like that,” I tell him.

He sputters, and even though my face is buried in his icy blonde hair, I know he’s blushing. “But we didn’t f-fuck,” he says. “We made love.”

I pull back to squint at him. “What’s the difference?”

“W-well, making love has more emotion poured into it, and you were bleeding emotion. I felt you on me, Eric. I felt it in every movement.”

Now I blush. “So were you,” I say defensively.

“Exactly.”

I kiss him slowly and deeply, the kind of kiss that makes him clutch my shirt as he melts into me. Except I’m not wearing a shirt this time, so he sees fit for my shoulders.

“I think my parents are home,” he whispers when we come up for air.

I hum, staring into his soft blue eyes. God, I’d do anything for those eyes and the boy they belong to. “As long as they didn’t catch us last night, I think we’re fine,” I assure him.

He giggles, falling into me. He gazes up at me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Is it bad that I wanna parade you around in nothin’ but your boxers to get their shocked reaction? To show them that what happened last night was real, and I don’t care what they think?”

“I think that’d be hilarious,” I answer. "I mean, unless you get grounded."

“I won't. Now let’s go,” he says. He takes me by my hand and drags me out of bed. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting it to be right now. I thought we’d stay holed up in his room for a little longer until his parents called him down and saw me come down with him unexpectedly.

That, and I never thought I'd live to see the day Butters says he won't get grounded for something.

In the kitchen, Butters greets his parents, “Mornin’, Mom and Dad.” He sits down, and I sit down next to him.

His parents look up from their breakfast of eggs and bacon. Their eyes grow to the size of plates when they see me sitting shirtless next to their son wearing my shirt and his hair sticking up in every direction like Tweek’s. I resist the urge to turn red in the face. I take a plate and pile it with eggs and bacon instead. Butters hums happily to himself as he takes a bowl and fills it with Fruity Pebbles.

“Uh, hello… Eric,” Butters’ dad says through gritted teeth.

“Sup,” I respond, shoveling the eggs into my mouth. I trade a look with Butters, who looks on the verge of laughter.

“I didn’t know you stayed over last night,” Mrs. Stotch says to me.

Butters says nonchalantly, “It wasn’t really planned. But then stuff happened.”

Butters’ dad jerks back in offense and probably shock. His parents’ eyes fly between us, and I can see the exact moment realization dawns on them. Mr. Stotch gulps. Mrs. Stotch blinks rapidly.

Butters breaks the silence. “Is it okay if Eric and I go to eat up in my room? We won’t make a mess,” he promises.

Mrs. Stotch nods slowly, not taking her eyes off me.

Butters takes his bowl, I take my plate. We go back up the stairs. As soon as the door closes, we explode with laughter. “Did—did you see their faces? Oh God, that was priceless!” Butters howls.

“Fuck yeah.” I sit down on his bed, snickering. "Now you better not get grounded."

Butters shakes his head smiling, brushing my arms away from my lap so he can drape himself over me. I stare at him with a _Really?_ expression. He grins and fits his head in my neck to kiss me there. I sigh, wrapping my arms around him so I can continue eating my breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " 'Cause every time I'm with you, I go into a zone  
> And I remember all the places you wanna go..."  
> -Touch It


	26. Butters Stotch

**Junior year.**

My arms are crossed casually as I walk down the sidewalk with Kenny. His hands are in the pockets of his parka as he kicks a crushed soda can in front of him. The clouds are gray, close to opening up and pouring rain. That’s spring for you—the air ain’t too hot, not too cold, but there’s always that chance of rain.

“So, um,” Kenny starts. I look at him. His head is down, his hair hanging over his violet eyes. His cigarette bobs between his lips. “If you don’t mind me asking… but do you ever… how do I put this? Uh, regret dating Cartman?” His eyes meet mine as he fumbles, “You don’t have to answer, and you can yell at me all you want. I was just curious.” He blows smoke through his mouth.

I give him a small smile, shrugging. “It-it’s fine. I’ll answer.” We walk into Summerton Park, where a family was allegedly murdered. I haven’t been since middle school.

Everything’s rusted and dirty and abandoned. Kenny stomps out his cigarette. We climb up the slide and sit on the platform. “It’s not that I regret dating him. It’s just that I remember the stuff he used to do to me in third and fourth grade and it throws me down a hole. I mean, there’s that time when we went to Super Phun Thyme in fourth grade, and sure, he forced me to sneak out with him, but in the end we ended up not gettin' caught. And then Camp New Grace, but because of that I became friends with Bradley. Except I haven’t talked to him in a while. Then of course there was that whole thing with me goin' to New York with fake balls on my chin so Eric and Kyle and Stan could win the prize. You were sick for a long time then, I think, which is why they quote unquote ‘replaced’ me with you. But for a short period of time. Then that time he made me think the world had ended. And when he insisted I be sacrificed for NAMBLA. I’m rememberin’ this all outta order. You get the idea,” I say. “But I wouldn’t call it regret. I guess it could be called… doubt? I dunno.”

Kenny nods, his head against the plastic walls. The movement makes our shoulders brush. “Makes sense to me.” His backpack is in his lap.

“Whatcha got in your backpack?” I wonder.

He unzips it, saying, “After work, I went to the store because Karen wanted some paints and paint brushes, so I got her some. These are the colors she needed.” He pulls out a bottle of black, purple, magenta, white, and blue paint, setting them between us. I turn the purple bottle to me, reading the label. They’re acrylics. He must notice the way I tilt my head in surprise because he adds, “You can use them if you want. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. I have brushes too.” He holds out three paint brushes. Flat, detail, and angle.

“I—I can’t. They’re Karen’s. She should use ‘em first,” I decline.

Kenny smiles at me. “Leo, Kare likes you a lot. I’m sure she wouldn’t care. If anything, she might think that because you used the brushes, her painting skills will improve. She really admires your artwork. She loves that painting of the beach in Hawaii you gave me last year.”

I don’t reply, instead choosing to count Kenny’s freckles. I get lost after thirty-two. He pushes the brushes into my hands. I look down at them. “What am I supposed to paint?” I ask.

Kenny sweeps an arm to the blue walls of the plastic archway surrounding us. “Nobody comes to this park anymore. I’m sure no one would notice if it got a makeover. Just think of Summerton as your canvas.” The corner of his mouth tilts up.

“O-okay. But only if you help me,” I say.

He lowers his head in a mock bow. “I’m at your service.”

“Um, I’m gonna need water.”

Kenny takes his thermos from the side of his backpack, offering it to me.

“I can’t use that! You need that to drink from!” I exclaim.

“Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me.” Kenny unscrews the lid and pours some water into it. He puts it on the platform and looks at me expectantly.

I pop open the lid to the black paint, squirting some on the wall. I choose the flat brush, smearing the paint evenly over the plastic. Once I’ve finished one-fourth of the wall, Kenny says, “I should’ve bought another one of those. I could probably be more of a help if I did.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s okay. Hey, maybe you could take some of that purple and blue and dot it over the black. I can blend them once you do,” I say.

“Awesome. Which brush?”

“Detail.” When he gives me a confused look, I point to the skinniest paint brush.

“Oh. I knew that, obviously.”

A few more bouts of laughter escape me.

As we paint, Kenny puts on some music. Ever since we started high school, Kenny’s really been into K-pop. The rest of the fellas think it’s weird, but I’m willing to listen to it, even if it is weird. Kenny’s favorite K-pop group is BTS. Under his orange parka, he often wears a black shirt with “Suga” printed on the back and his face in the group logo on the front. He’s wearing it right now.

A BTS song plays from his phone, and there are a few English words like _“Just let me love you.”_ The melody’s good, and that I can’t deny. “What’s this song called?” I ask Kenny as I dot some the white paint over the blend of blue and purple.

“ ‘Serendipity.’ Jimin sings it, and this is, like, one of my favorite songs.” He pauses, painting some magenta onto the black. “You know, I think Jimin would be your bias if you stanned them, but that’s for you to decide,” he says.

“What’s a bias?” I ask.

“Like your favorite member. My bias is Yoongi.” He points to his shirt proudly. “Obviously.”

“I thought his name was Suga?”

“Suga is his stage name. His real name is Yoongi, and I love him.”

I smile at Kenny’s mild fanboying. If you give him the chance, he’ll talk to you all day about BTS, and I think it’s fascinating. Unlike most of my friends, I don’t have a particular artist or group or band that I love. Like the way Eric has Lady Gaga, and Kyle has Khalid and The Weeknd, Kenny has BTS and every other K-pop group, and Stan has Panic! At The Disco and Marina and The Diamonds. For me, if I can dance to it, then I like it. I like keeping my options open.

"If it helps, I'll stan them for you," I say.

He shoots me the most flattering grin, and I almost drop my paint brush. "Thanks, Leo."

Once the archway is completed, Kenny and I stare up at our work. We’re lying on our backs, our legs propped up to keep them from touching the still-drying walls. Kenny lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Leo. You’re so good at painting.”

I painted the interior of the archway to resemble a galaxy with the blue and black and purple and magenta. I used the white for tiny stars. To better blend the colors, I mixed a few together on a discarded paper plate Kenny found blowing through the sand.

“I feel like I’m actually in space,” he continues.

I smile at him. He smiles back. We hold each other’s gaze, and for some reason, my stomach flutters just a bit as I stare into his violet eyes. The moment is shattered when “Bitch Lasagna” starts blasting. It’s the most recent song Eric’s chosen for my ringtone. Kenny and I look at my phone between us. The screen is lit up, displaying Eric’s contact photo.

“Theodore?” Kenny says with an amused grin. “His contact name in your phone is _Theodore_?”

I nod, picking up my phone. “He hates it, but he never changes it when he’s got the chance. So he must tolerate it enough.” I answer Eric’s phone call. “Hey, Eric,” I say.

“I miss you, homeboy.”

I blink, a smile creeping onto my face. “E-Eric, I saw you yesterday. Stop bein’ silly.”

He replies, “Then _you_ stop being so missable, bruh.”

“Is that a word?” I ask.

“What? Bruh? Yeah it is. Bebe uses it all the damn time."

I laugh. "No. I mean missable."

"Oh. Then, yeah. I think so. Anyway, come over to my place tonight. Maybe around eight or sooner.”

My cheeks warm at the implication, despite his tone being casual. “All—all right,” I stutter.

“Where are you right now?” he asks.

I answer, “Summerton. With Kenny.” I glance at him beside me. He’s got his hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the galaxy above us.

Eric’s voice brings me back to reality. “Cool. See you tonight.”

“S-see ya.”

Eric hangs up. I stare at my phone screen. My lockscreen’s of Eric’s chest. Or specifically, his light pink sweatshirt—the one that has _In the name of love_ embroidered over the heart. There’s that golden glow of the fairy lights around it because I took the picture last month when we remade the fort.

Kenny’s the first to hear it—the light pitter patter of rain on the plastic canopy. “It’s starting to rain,” he observes, his head turned to the opening of the archway, where rain is starting to come down, harder and harder with every passing second.

“I hope my painting doesn’t get washed away somehow,” I say.

The absence of one of us suggesting to leave hangs in the air. I’m not sure I want it to come down. Kenny keeps staring up, and I keep my focus on my white Converse. It’s when it starts pouring does Kenny finally say, “We should go.” He slings his backpack onto his shoulder.

I’m about to go down the ladder when Kenny slides down the slide, whooping. I gape at him when he’s on his feet, already drenched, but smiling brightly. “Just come down that way! You’ll get wet no matter what!” Kenny sticks out his arms and spins in a circle, his head back, his tongue out. His piercing gleams in the street lights. I watch raindrops roll down his cheeks, down his neck. Suddenly seized by the feeling of determination, I hurtle down the slide. I didn’t anticipate the slipperiness of the slide when I pushed off, so I end up going a little too fast. When I shoot to my feet with a shriek, I stumble right into Kenny. But he catches me.

We’re laughing as he rights me. He doesn’t let go of me when I’m up. Our laughter dies out. I stare up at him, he stares down at me. The only sound is the slamming of the rain. Kenny’s hair is plastered to his forehead, falling into his eyes. I reach up to brush his hair out of his face. Even in the semidarkness, his violet eyes glitter. Our noses are so close, almost touching. I can feel his warm breath on my cheeks.

My heart speeds up, and something within me stirs at his closeness.

But I blink, and it’s gone. I pull away, my face hot under the cold rain. Kenny clears his throat, turning away.

What the heck just happened? What was that?

I focus on the slide. My painting inside the archway doesn’t seem to be melting away yet. Rainwater slips down my back. I shiver.

“C’mon.” Kenny jerks his head to the sidewalk.

I follow him back into town, hanging a few paces back. Or rather, I hang a few paces back until he slows to match his steps with mine.

I stand on the steps to Eric’s house. Kenny says from the sidewalk, “See you tomorrow maybe?”

I nod. “Maybe. Stay safe, Ken.”

He chuckles, his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll try, but no promises.” His wink stops my breathing. Then he runs off to avoid anymore rain.

I stare after him, only for a heartbeat, before knocking on the door. Eric opens it right away. He raises an eyebrow at me. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“You told me to come over,” I point out, confused.

“I thought you’d be smart enough to bring an umbrella, dumbass.” Eric takes me by the arm and pulls me from the cold rain and into the warm interior of the house.

Clyde and Bebe are sat at the couch, pressed closely together as Clyde carefully paints Bebe’s nails red. Her head is on his shoulder as she watches him. They finally started dating two months ago. They look up and smile at me. “Hey, Butters,” they chorus.

“Hi.”

I see how Bebe’s eyes find Eric. “Don’t worry, you two. Once my nails are dry, Sweet Pea and I’ll be out of here and you can go as crazy and be as loud as you want.”

I blush. A glance at Eric tells me he is too. His fingers find mine. “You’re creating puddles,” he says instead. He takes me upstairs.

In the hallway, he throws me a towel from the closet. He goes into his room, I go into the bathroom. In the shower, I wash out the rainwater, and that weird encounter that happened between me and Kenny at the park. The shiver running down my spine feels like electricity as the memory of how his eyes stayed on mine when he helped me stand comes back to me.

“No, don’t think like that,” I say to myself. “Why am I even thinking this in the first place?”

When I finish showering, Eric lets me borrow some of his clothes. He’d found a pair of boxers I’d accidentally left the last time I stayed over and had to leave in a rush. We go back downstairs where Clyde’s knelt in front of Bebe as he ties her shoes.

“Why are you tying her shoes? Can’t she do it herself?” Eric asks as he flips through channels.

Clyde stands and carefully takes Bebe’s hand. “Her nails are still drying,” he says. He opens the door for her.

“Ooh,” Bebe says, curtsying in her knee-length black skirt. “Thank you, my prince.” She walks out of the house, opening her umbrella.

“No problem, cool beans,” Clyde says, following her. The door shuts with a slam.

Eric and I watch a movie, then we play video games. Eric shouts when I make a mistake and I apologize. Then he kisses me right after. Around eleven, we go back up to his room. He lays me down, climbing on top of me. I’m static with excitement as his hands roam my body. He sighs when I kiss his neck.

After midnight, I use Eric’s arm as a pillow as we lay in silence. His fingers caress my hip under the waistband of my boxers. My hands trace shapes in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

My eyebrows furrow. “Why? What for?”

“For all the dumb things I used to do to you when we were kids.”

Me telling Kenny about how I remember all the old things Eric used to do to me when we were in elementary comes back to me. I say, “Eric, you don’t need to be sorry. You’ve already apologized to me twenty-seven times, and I already told you each time I forgive you.”

“I know.”

His stomach rumbles, and I giggle. “We should get something to eat,” I say.

“I was just thinking the same thing, wow,” Eric says. He leans over the bed and grabs his shirt from off the floor.

We run down the stairs with quiet feet. Eric opens up the fridge, dousing us in the white light. He takes my hand and pulls me in front of him, my back flush against his chest. He starts quietly singing a song I’ve never heard before.

Eric spins me in a circle. I giggle, falling against him. We dance around the kitchen, the fridge still open and humming and glowing. Eric lifts me onto the table, and he kisses me. Then he turns around and goes back to the fridge to take out a box of Hot Pockets from the freezer. The words of the song echo in my mind as Eric heats up a few Hot Pockets for us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " 'Cause there we are again in the middle of the night  
> We're dancing round the kitchen in the refrigerator light  
> Down the stairs, I was there, I remember it all too well..."  
> -All Too Well


	27. Eric Cartman

**Junior year.**

Burger King isn’t as awesome as KFC, but it’s still a good place to eat. We’re almost finished with our food. The only things that are left are the fries and onion rings. I have the cardboard Burger King crown on my head. I glance at Butters’ backpack next to him. “Remind me again why you have a backpack full of spray cans?” I say around my mouthful.

Butters shushes me, throwing his gaze around the room. He whispers, “We’re goin’ over to Summerton, remember? I wanna give the park a makeover. Spray paint is the quickest way to do it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Spray painting the park? That sounds like vandalism to me. Isn’t that felony?” I fake a gasp. “B-Butts, are you suggesting we go commit a crime?”

He giggles, rolling his eyes. “No, silly. Just think of it as community service. Except nobody asked.” He wipes his hands on a napkin.

I smirk, taking his hand. He gives me a confused look when I slide an onion ring over two of his fingers. It’s way too big, and he has to space out his fingers to keep from crushing it. I keep my eyes on him as I take a bite of the onion ring. He laughs, the kind of laugh where he squeezes his eyes shut and leans back a little.

“Stop that. It tickles!” he giggles.

I don’t, obviously. I nibble off the onion ring until it’s completely gone. With his other hand, he takes off my crown and puts it on his own head. I lick the crumbs off his fingers before deadpanning, “Why?”

“You put an onion ring on my finger, I get the crown. Don’t I look splendid with it on?” He smiles at me.

Amused, I scoff. “McFuck off.”

He does that dumb cute tilt of his head when he’s confused. “Eric, we’re at Burger King. Your branding’s all off.”

I facepalm. “Okay, you blonde Troye Sivan lookin’ motherfucker.”

The look of confusion intensifies. “Huh?”

I grin. I show him a picture of Troye Sivan from Google.

“Does he really look like me?” he wonders.

I look at the picture, then up at Butters. “Yeah, sort of. Except your hair isn’t curly and you don’t have a nose ring, thank God,” I say.

He puts his chin in his palm, looking at me with half-lidded eyes. The crown is crooked on his head, the sleeve of my Broken Promises hoodie fallen around his forearm. I take a picture of him, and the sound of the camera shutter tugs up the corners of his mouth.

“Can we go now?” he asks after I put my phone back in my hoodie pocket. “I wanna paint while the sun’s still up.”

“Okay.”

We clean up our trash and leave the Burger King. As we walk to the car, I take my crown back and place it on my head. Butters scrunches up his nose at me. I snort around the straw of my soda. I start the car and drive towards Summerton at the edge of town. Earlier this year, after I got my permit, I offered to teach Butters what I was learning. At first, he refused, saying he could get us hurt with his eye. I told him we’d drive around the abandoned drive-in. So now, like me, he knows how to drive if he ever might need to.

At the park, I realize the place looks like a dump. There’s trash everywhere and the playground equipment is breaking or broken. The slide, I see, is still vandalized with mine and my friends’ signatures and vulgarity in permanent marker. Butters climbs up the slide and points up to the archway. “See, Eric? This is what Kenny and I painted a few weeks ago,” he says.

I lean my head on the side of the slide, looking up at him. “Cool. But I don’t have to help you do anything, right? I can just sit down while you frolic around and graffiti the park?”

Butters rolls his eyes and kisses the bridge of my nose. “You can, but it’ll be real boring,” he warns.

I shrug. “Nothing’s really boring when you have your phone.”

Butters slides down, jumping up and planting his feet in front of me. “If you insist, _Theodore_.” He drops his backpack on the slide and rummages through it.

I huff. “Who are you calling Theodore, _Leopold_?” I fire back.

Butters ties a black bandanna over the bottom half of his face. He shakes a spray can. It makes him look so rebellious it’s insane. “I dunno. Do you see anyone else around with the name Theodore?”

He walks over to the swings and starts spraying them down. I sit up on the platform of the slide where his and Kenny’s painting of a galaxy hangs above my head. “Shut up, dumbass,” I snap.

He laughs.

The thing about Summerton is that there are no buildings or houses nearby. It’s kind of creepy, especially if you consider there were rumors that a family was murdered here. But then again, this is South Park and people get murdered here constantly. It’s our thing.

We’re at the park for hours, with Butters graffiting away and me blasting music and moving around so he can access the places I was sitting. I sit at the benches, currently unpainted by Butters. I watch him spray down the outer archway of the slide. Gradually, the thing starts to resemble a flower. And I guess the leaking of the spray paint makes it look cooler.

The song playing ends and a new one comes on. Butters gasps, turning around from his painting on the monkey bars as he exclaims, “I love this song!” He starts singing loud enough for the whole town to hear.

I snort. “God, B-Butts. Shut up and come here.”

He puts down the spray can and walks over to me, still singing. He sits next to me with his arms around my neck. I survey the park. The monkey bars are half finished, but he repainted them to look like candy canes. The swing seats are checkered, the chains fading in shades of green. He left the slide untouched, still dirty and yellow and covered in smudged Sharpie. The seesaw looks like a monster. The merry-go-round looks like the moon. The bathroom walls look like the beach at sunset.

“Huh,” I say. “You did a really good job in a few hours.”

Butters yawns. “We’ve been here for five hours, Eric,” he says.

“You’re lying.”

“Nuh-uh.”

The May sky’s still blue. But behind us, the sun starts to sink. Butters pinches my nose. I gaze at him. I lower his bandanna to around his neck. As soon as I do, he starts quietly singing to the new song playing. I roll my eyes at him, unable to fight my grin as his face gets closer until our lips brush every time he forms a word. I tilt my head and connect our lips. Butters squeaks happily and pushes his tongue into my mouth. I fucking love it when he acts all innocent but then he counters it by doing shit like this.

I don’t know how long we sit there making out but by the time Butters pulls away, the sun’s gone and my lips are numb. He whispers in my ear, “We’ll finish this later,” and the hairs on my arms rise. He takes my hand and pulls me behind the bathroom, where the back wall is the only thing unpainted.

“I wanna do something about us here,” he says.

“Okay. What?”

Butters shoves me against the wall, pinning me to it. He kisses me, our teeth clicking. I stare at his closed eyes, feeling the desperate movement of his lips and his left hand clutching my hoodie. I hear rattling, and Butters pulls away. I realize he’s shaking a red spray can. I watch him lift the bandanna over his nose again.

I look him over, in his sky blue windbreaker I got him for his birthday because he loved my red one so much, and his yellow shirt underneath, all lightly covered in spray paint. He’s wearing gray biker jeans and his white Converse are covered in colors. And that goddamn bandanna really brings out the paleness of his eyes and hair. “You’re right,” I rasp. “We _do_ we need to continue this later. You look so fucking gorgeous in a bandanna.”

He raises his eyebrows at me.

My face goes hot. “That last part slipped out accidentally.”

I don’t need to see his mouth to know he’s smirking. “Close your eyes and put your hands by your sides,” he instructs.

I drop my arms to my sides and close my eyes. At first, nothing happens, but then he takes my left wrist and turns my palm against the wall. I peek at him, seeing him splay out my fingers. There’s more rattling, and then hissing as he sprays paint. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask while moving as little as possible.

Butters shushes me. “You’ll see soon enough, Theodore.”

I hold back a remark.

The hissing goes over my head, around my ear, down my side. Butters says, “Okay, done.”

I open my eyes and turn around. In red is my outline. I look at him. “Cool?”

He hands me a light blue spray can. “I need you to outline me.”

I look down at the can, then back up at him. “What if I mess it up?” I ask.

He stands against the wall, his right hand over the outline of my left. “You won’t. You just need to trace me.”

“If I get it on your clothes?”

He looks himself over. He shakes out his left leg. “Look at my jeans and my shoes. They’re already sprayed over. And if you get some on my face or hair it’ll wash off eventually. And cover your nose and mouth with your shirt so you don’t inhale the fumes,” he tells me.

I hold the collar of my shirt over the lower half of my face. I shake the can a few times before stepping closer to him. I spray around him, careful to not get any paint on him. Once I’ve gone around him, he steps up to me and observes my work.

“Pretty good for an amateur,” he mumbles.

I narrow my eyes at him and shove him a bit. He laughs. He takes back the blue. He colors in the outline of his right arm. He takes the red and does the same to my left arm. Then purple’s in his hand and he makes it look like the red and blue are leaking into each other to make purple at the joined hands.

I look at him expectantly. He winks at me as he rummages through his backpack. I look away blushing. The hiss of a spray can comes to my ears again, and I look away from the seesaw to the wall. He’s spraying in words and as he does, I read them aloud: “You fuck me up but… I still… want… you.”

He turns around and gives me the Butters smile with the scrunched up nose. I feel my face get redder as he slides into my arms. I bring him closer to me, burying my face in his neck. “I hate you so much,” I murmur.

He giggles into my ear. “Bull heck. You and I both know that."

I bite down a grin. “I hate that you know me so well, then.” I pause. “I love you so much.”

My hat comes off and I feel him stroke my hair. “I love you too, Eric.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm a mess, but I'm the mess that you wanted..."  
> -Dancing With Our Hands Tied


	28. Butters Stotch

**Junior year.**

Bebe is throwing an all-exclusive end-of-the-year party at her house on the second week before junior year ends. It’s all-exclusive, she says, because only her friends and her friends’ friends can come _if_ they’re juniors in high school. Even with her little rule, her house is filled to the brim with juniors in high school. Or so I’m told. Eric and I are at his house, hidden away from the world in our fort. We’re getting texts from our friends about the party, trying to get us to go.

“All our friends are at that party though,” I say. I trace Eric’s jawline for good measure. I’m laying on top of him.

He grunts, grabbing my hand. “Parties suck when you and I can be alone together,” he says.

I use my free hand to push his hair back, rubbing my nose against his. “But it’s our last party as juniors. And we’ve never been to a good and proper high school party,” I point out.

He takes my other hand. His face is red under the fairy lights I brought over as he glares up at me. “Goddammit, stop touching me. I can’t think straight. It’s just a stupid party,” he says.

I softly kiss his bottom lip. “Pleeeease?” I whisper, staring droopy-eyed into his. “We won’t be there for hours on end. Just once, and we’ll never go again. I promise.” I kiss him again.

Eric sits up abruptly, making me sit up too with a spinning head. “Okay fine. But you owe me,” he says. “It’s a pinkie promise.”

We hook pinkies.

I smile, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. He licks my tongue, and it tickles. We crawl out of the fort. I turn off the lights. We go downstairs and put on our shoes. Since Bebe’s house is a block down, we decide to walk.

“What will I need to owe you?” I ask as we go down the sidewalk. The night air is getting warmer, and the stars are bright.

“Guess,” Eric says.

“BJ?”

He smirks at me.

I laugh. “I figured.” I hug his arm and put my head on his shoulder. The rest of the walk is in silence.

There’s no point in knocking when the music’s so loud I can make out the words while we’re standing outside. Eric sighs and narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t forget our deal, B-Butts,” he says.

I nod, putting his arm around me. “Yup. You won’t regret it.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” He opens the door.

The music and its volume hits us like a wave. It’s dark inside, but a few lamps are on so it’s not complete darkness. The first people I recognize are Bebe and Clyde sitting on the floor next to the door kissing. I hear Eric laugh, and he kicks Clyde’s leg. Clyde moves to glower, but when he sees Eric, he grins. “You decided to come after all!” he shouts over the music.

Bebe pouts. “Bruh.” She takes a five dollar bill from her pocket and hands it to Clyde. He kisses her head. She says, “There’s food and stuff in the kitchen. My parents’ room and my room are locked, so don’t even try. There’s video games—” She points to the TV and we turn to see Craig and Those Guys on the couch playing _Mario Kart._ “And if you look around, you should be able to find your friends soon enough.” Then she nudges Clyde’s face back to hers.

Eric leads me to the living room. I wouldn’t say the house is filled to the brim, like Tweek claimed. Sure, there’re lots of people in the house, but most of them I recognize. But it is difficult to find somewhere to sit, so Eric and I fit for standing.

Stan bumps into me as he makes his way into the living room. He steps back to apologize, but then his eyes widen in realization. “Oh, shit. Cartman and Butters! I thought you wouldn’t come,” he says. “You sounded so against it when we were talking about it yesterday, Cartman.” He’s got a red Solo cup in his hand and his face is already flushed. I wonder how many drinks he’s had already and where Kyle is to monitor it.

Eric shrugs. “It’s not a complete bust.” He trades a look with me that makes me blush.

Stan looks puzzled. “Okay. Cool. Well, I’m just gonna go over here.” He points to Wendy on the couch and stumbles over to her, falling into her lap. Somehow the cup doesn’t slosh over.

“Jesus,” Eric says to me. We stare at the mess of Stan, and Wendy shaking her head and stroking his hair. “Where the fuck is Kyle? Isn’t it, like, his job as Stan’s super best friend to make sure he doesn’t get alcohol poisoning?”

I laugh. “That’s what I was just thinkin’!”

Soon enough, Kyle walks into the living room with his arm around Heidi, gesturing and singing the song blasting from the speakers:

“ _Shorty like a thousand dollar plate, fine china_

_Tell her that she beautiful every day, I remind her_

_Then I jump in the pussy like a lake, I’m a diver_

_And her last man was a pussy, had a vagina_

_I get lost in her eyes, like dust from the skies_

_It’s her body or nobody, I refuse to compromise_

_So if she leaves, I’ma kill her, oh, she’ll die_

_Did I say that out loud? I’m so crazy about mine..._ ”

Heidi laughs, hiding her face in his shoulder as he keeps singing. Kyle bends his neck and kisses her deeply. When he pulls back, his eyes find us. He grins. “Wow, Cartman,” he says. “Looks like Butters dragged you into coming, huh?”

Eric scoffs. “Yeah, sure, Kyle. Go eat out Heidi.”

Kyle and Heidi both blush. Craig laughs out loud. Tweek snorts. Jimmy says, “Oof,” and Annie covers her mouth to hide a grin. Token shakes his head and trades a look with Nichole.

Wendy says, “Rude, Cartman!”

And Stan says, “Huh? What’s happening?”

Kyle retorts, “Go suck Butters’ dick.”

Eric says, “Nah. Later, he’s sucking mine.”

Now I blush. Kyle looks like he’s about to say something, but decides against it. Instead, he walks over to Stan and plucks the cup from his hands. “Okay, you’re done for the night. C’mon, dude. The party’s only been on for two hours and you’re already fucked up.” He lifts the cup to his own lips and takes a sip.

Stan reaches out and makes grabby-hands for the cup. With Wendy holding him in her lap and him attempting to get the cup back, he looks like a little baby wanting back his bottle.

Eric says, “This was a bad idea.”

“No it wasn’t,” I say. “Let’s get something to eat, then maybe we can try to get a round of _Mario Kart_ in.”

We fit for a plate of cupcakes and cookies and cans of Sprite and Dr Pepper. Most people are outside, enjoying the warm weather. Back in the living room, Bebe and Clyde have joined. Eric and I sit on the floor. Bebe’s sat in Clyde’s lap, doing something on her phone. The song playing lowers to a respectable volume where we don’t gotta shout, and cuts off in the middle. A new song starts. Bebe swoons against Clyde. “This is our song, sweet pea,” she says.

Clyde furrows his brows at her. “I thought ‘Our Song’ was our song?”

She nods. “No, it is, but so is this one.”

“Oh ok,” he says. “What _is_ this song?”

“ ‘Prom Song Gone Wrong.’ Or ‘Teenage Wasteland.’ I don’t actually know. It’s Lana Del Rey. I want this song to play at our wedding,” she says cheerily.

“Lit.”

Bebe stands and starts slow dancing to the song with her hand in Clyde’s. Bebe has a very aesthetic way of dressing. She’s said once before when she and I were over at Eric and Clyde’s that her inspiration is the 1950’s. She wears red high waisted shorts and a black polka dot shirt. Her hair’s in a ponytail, her curls tumbling down the sides of her face. She’s even got the red lips. And Clyde beams up at her like he’s looking at the brightest star in the universe.

Suddenly, Bebe stops singing and dancing and gasps, “Horoscopes!”

“What?” Craig deadpans.

“We should read about our horoscopes! Oh my God, why didn’t I think of this sooner?” She plunks back into Clyde’s lap and messes with her phone again.

“White girls are wild,” Token mutters. Nichole bursts into laughter, clutching her stomach.

Annie sputters in disbelief. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we _seriously_ not going to mention how Bebe just suggested that she and Clyde will get _married_?” she asks.

“Yeah. I a-agree,” Jimmy voices. Him and Annie glance at each other. She leans her head on his shoulder.

Clyde shrugs. “We’ve talked about it since before we started dating.”

Eric groans. “Yes you fucking _did_. You wouldn’t shut up about it. It was so exhausting and I wasn’t even participating in the conversation,” he says.

I giggle and gently nudge him in the stomach in reprimand.

“I think it’s sweet,” Heidi says.

“I think it’s silly,” Wendy says. “Bebe, you don’t even know if you and Clyde will stay together that long.”

Bebe pouts. “That’s why I’m gonna look at our horoscopes. Don’t be jealous, Wendy, just because Sweet Pea and I don’t break up every two minutes.”

Wendy visibly bristles, glancing down at Stan in her lap. He stares up at the ceiling, a distant look on his face.

Nichole says, “I personally don’t believe in horoscopes. I mean, sure, some things are accurate, but not to every last detail.”

“Well, _duh,_ ” Tweek says.

As Bebe looks up her horoscope, I ask, “Hey, fellas, are Kenny and Henrietta here?”

Somewhat sarcastically, Kyle says, “Henrietta didn’t come because it's conformist, but Kenny’s too busy being edgy and smoking outside to come in here and read about our horoscopes.”

Heidi smiles and shakes her head. Kyle leans over and says things into her ear that make her blush and smile wider. Eric nudges me and sends me a knowing look. I send him a _Really?_ look in response. He whispers, “How much you wanna bet they’re gonna sneak off soon enough?”

I roll my eyes at him. He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers like he used to when we held hands under the table in middle school. Old habits die hard. He doesn’t let go of my hand like he used to back then.

“Okay,” Bebe says, “Never mind about the horoscopes. Let’s just go upstairs because there’s too many people down here.”

Our group starts laughing at her abrupt change of mind. We all follow her up to her room, where she takes a key from her pocket and unlocks the door. She turns on the light, exposing the rose pink color scheme of her room and the Taylor Swift posters on the walls. Everyone moves to sit on the floor, but Eric snags a pink bean bag before anyone else can. He pulls me in next to him. Clyde and Bebe sit on her bed. Wendy drops Stan in a pink chair next to the closet, and his head lolls to the side. Wendy supports him by sitting on the arm of the chair.

Bebe turns on her pink stereo and Taylor Swift automatically starts playing. Bebe sings along, ruffling her hair after she pulls it out of her ponytail.

Curious, I ask, “Hey, Bebe, what’s it like having curly hair?”

She stops singing to say, “It sucks sometimes, but then I remember Taylor's curly hair, and it makes everything okay again.”

Nichole goes through the bookshelf in Bebe’s desk, taking two packs of Uno cards and dealing them out, five per person. I glance at my cards when I get them, careful to turn them away from Eric. My hand’s pretty good. I already have a plus four card.

“Where are Kyle and Heidi?” Nichole asks, handing five cards to Jimmy.

Everyone looks around the room. Kyle and Heidi are nowhere to be seen.

“Did they follow us up?” Wendy says.

“I don’t think so,” Token says.

Eric nudges me. He lifts his eyebrows knowingly. I sigh. He chuckles.

Nichole sits next to Token, the leftover cards in a stack in the middle of the floor. Bebe surveys her hand as she says, “It’s too bad Red and Kevin couldn’t come. I hope they’re having a blast with their _Star Trek_ marathon.”

Craig says, “Red wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. Even Ruby momentarily blocked her.”

Bebe says, “It’s cute and all that they’re totally decorating and stuff for it, but damn. They’re nerds. Can we start the game now?”

Clyde rubs her back.

Tweek wonders, “Shouldn’t we wait for Kyle and Heidi?”

Eric snorts a laugh. “No. Let’s just start. I can already see myself winning.”

I say, “I sincerely doubt that.” When he shoots me a confused look, I beam at him.

“We’re playing until there are two people left, and then the two play between each other. Then the loser is determined,” Nichole says. “There are no winners. Just losers. The loser has to do anything the person they lost to asks as long as it isn’t illegal or offensive or has something to do with sexual acts.”

“I’ve never played it that way,” Stan slurs.

“It’s the Craig and Those Guys plus girlfriends version,” Clyde answers.

“Ohh.”

Nichole flips over a card from the draw pile. It’s a yellow two. Token slaps down a six yellow. We continue around the circle. When I use my plus four card on Eric after he already had to switch hands with Wendy when he only had two cards left, he rages so hard he leaves the bean bag to sit across the room from me, leaving me laughing so hard tears form in my eyes. He cusses out Wendy and sticks his tongue out at me.

“So much for you winning,” Wendy remarks.

Eight people in our circle are already out of cards an hour later. Bebe had just put down _her_ last card when Heidi and Kyle come in. Kyle sits on the floor next to Stan’s chair. Stan croaks, “Oh hey, dude. Where you been?”

Kyle responds, “Getting food. Deal me in."

Clyde hands him five cards.

Eric, finally returned to me after he cooled down, whispers to me, “I don’t think getting food usually involves red faces and messy hair. Unless that food is located between Heidi's legs.”

Kyle’s curls are quite a mess under his askew hat, and Heidi’s shirt is rumpled. Both of their faces are blushing. Heidi goes over to Bebe, cupping her hand around her ear as she whispers something to her.

Bebe blinks in surprise. When Heidi pulls back, Bebe says, “I’m not sure. Come with me to check.” She gets up and Heidi follows her out of the room.

Craig puts down a card and looks at me expectantly.

I glance down at my hand. Only two cards left. The color in the draw pile is green, perfectly coordinating with my three green. “Uno!” I exclaim. I put down my card.

The circle collectively sucks in a breath. Kyle’s still with his five cards, Eric to five, and Craig down to two. 

We circle around until Craig puts down a red four. “Uno,” he says.

But I still chirp in triumph as I put down my last card. Eric high fives me. Bebe and Heidi come back. Wendy asks, “What happened?”

As Heidi lowers herself next to Kyle, Bebe says, “Heidi needed to borrow lady products.”

Wendy nods in understanding.

To Eric I say, “I’m gonna go get some more snacks. You want anything?”

“Another Sprite would be great.”

I go downstairs. It’s close to midnight now, and the crowd is less dense. I go into the kitchen and take the last lukewarm can of Sprite from the box. I’m about to reach for a plate when someone puts their arm around me. I turn my head, seeing Kenny and smelling the strong scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke lingering on him. I open my mouth to greet him but he interrupts.

He says, words slurring together, “Y’know, Leo. I think you’re cute, with your blue eyes and soft skin. Cartman doesn’t deserve you. Why do you love him anyway?” He strokes my cheek with his thumb.

My mouth hangs open. My face floods with warmth. “Wh—K-Kenny? I… Be-because—”

I don’t think he’s listening. Not when he continues, “All he’s ever done is manipulate and use you. Is that why you two are dating? Is he manipulating you?”

My mood changes within a heartbeat. Now I’m numb with anger. I don’t get fired up so easily, but him saying stuff like that reminds me of when Eric and I first publicized our relationship. How the DMs I got were being so patronizing and rude about him, telling me I was just being manipulated and used and, as usual, I was too blind to see it. Kenny had been the only one to not make a remark about our relationship. I actually thought he’d been the only one to accept it right away. Maybe I was wrong.

He continues, “You don’t need him. In fact, he’s fucked you up worse than Heidi. He’s had you wrapped around his finger since day one. He makes you perform every one of his stupid whims. He’s mentally and emotionally damaged you. He doesn’t _care_ about you. Do you not remember that time you tried to fucking kill yourself? Because those comments you filtered for him were so dark? In the hospital room, I was so scared that I was gonna lose you. I couldn’t do anything about it, and I was so fucking terrified. And you know what he was doing? He was complaining to his mom about the fact that his comments would no longer be filtered for him. He didn’t give a shit that you were dying. He didn’t care that the boy who cared about him enough to even filter his comments for him was _dying._ He doesn’t care about you, Leo. Not the way I do. He never has.”

His words feel like a slap to the face, the kind that leaves you staggering with your ear ringing. I blink back the stinging in my eyes to snap, “Kenny, you’re drunk, and you don’t know you’re sayin’.” My voice shakes.

His mouth quirks to the side. His eyes are suddenly in focus and his words are shockingly clear. “Maybe,” he murmurs, “but I’m sober enough to do this.”

Then his hands are cupping my cheeks and his lips are pressed on mine. They’re gentle and soft and warm. His fingers are rough, but a kind of rough earned from hard work. Alcohol and cigarettes and the taste of mint gum overload my senses.

But before I can make sense of it, before I can kiss back like my mind is urging, he stumbles away. I stand frozen in the kitchen, my heart pounding and my stomach fluttering. I can’t even bring myself to breathe. The realization slowly creeps onto me, and with that, tears. Hot wetness rolls down my face. I hiccup sobs. My legs are unable to support all my weight. I double over onto the counter, the Sprite can still clutched in my hand.

It can’t be. No.

But it is. Kenny kissed me.

And I didn’t push him away. I even let myself _enjoy_ it. I wanted to kiss him  _back._

My mouth floods with a bitter taste, like I'm about to puke.

I cry out louder, every part of me trembling. I feel people start to throw glances at me. All at once, I don’t want to be here. I’m anxious to be back in Eric's room, in the fort, huddled up with him.

Him. Eric Cartman. My _boyfriend._ My boyfriend who has brown hair and brown and violet eyes. Who wears red and buries his emotions deep down. Who trusts me with the map and shovel to dig them up. Who’s not who he used to be. Not some tall skinny blonde boy with a gap between his teeth. Who’s dating Henrietta Biggle.

The tears don’t stop like I urge them too. I get to my feet instead, craving for Eric’s touch. Because he loves me more than anything, and I feel that way about him too. My feet slam up the stairs. I throw open the door to Bebe’s room. I’m hit with ongoing conversation between Eric and Kyle with everyone in the room giggling.

Eric exclaims, “You fucked Heidi in the bathtub! That’s where you two disappeared to?” He cackles, holding his middle. His back is to me.

Apparently, Eric and Kyle were the last two and Kyle lost against Eric. I wipe away a tear rolling down my cheek. I don’t have the strength to interrupt. So I just stand there with a dry mouth, listening.

Eric stops mid-laugh, saying, “Wait, I thought Bebe said Heidi was on her period?”

Heidi says, “No. She didn’t mean pads and tampons when she said lady products. She meant birth control.”

Eric nods. “Oh, birth control—Wait, you used birth control?”

Kyle mumbles, “There were no condoms in the bathroom.”

Clyde says to Bebe, “You have birth control?”

She whispers back, “My mom’s. And she lets me use it when I have really bad breakouts.”

Kyle frowns red-faced. “Can we please stop talking about mine and Heidi’s—” But the look drops when he notices me there. Worry replaces it. Everyone looks where Kyle looks, and their faces mirror his.

Eric lifts his head. “What is it?” he says. Then he twists around.

His face pales when he sees me. By now, I’m sniveling and shaking in the doorway, my face overflowing with tears. Eric scrambles to his feet, his arms reaching out to me in an instant. I eagerly slide into them, squeezing him tight to me. I feel his pounding heartbeat against my chest. He loves me. I know he does.

Right?

The room’s quiet, I realize, as Eric asks, “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Did someone do something to you? Say something to you?”

I shake my head, unwilling to speak of it aloud and bring back the stinging memory. “I wanna go home,” I cry.

Eric keeps me tight to him as he says, “Okay. We’ll go home.”

We leave without goodbyes to our friends. As Eric walks me back to his house still holding me, I realize I still have the Sprite can. I show it to him. He takes it from me, uttering a quiet, “Thank you.” He pauses. “Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

I give him a curt shake of my head. “Mm-mm.” The air’s dried the tears on my cheeks.

“Do I need to slash someone’s tires? Humiliate them eternally? Make them regret their existence?”

I offer him a dry laugh, trying to convince him I’m fine when I’m not. “No, Eric. I was bein’ dramatic. I saw an article suggested on Google for me about ch-child negligence, and it brought back… memories,” I lie.

He sighs through his nose. He knows I’m lying. He tips his head and kisses me. I’m reminded of how much I love the familiar weight of his kiss. I love his kiss because he loves me enough to kiss me. At his house, we go up to his room and ditch our clothes until we lay in the fort in nothing but our T-shirts and boxers. I keep myself connected to Eric’s side. Under the covers, I twist our legs together. I remember I owe him, and I say, “Eric, what about your BJ? I pinkie promised.”

He puts down his phone to hold me tighter. “No, fuck that. That pinkie promise can be overlooked. It was a douchey thing to say anyway. You never have to owe me anything. I just want you to feel better. That’s all I care about right now.”

My eyes are heavy with the aftermath of tears and exhaustion. My head’s still swimming, on his shoulder. I betray myself when I whisper, “Why do you love me?”

Eric noses my hair. “Lots of reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s see… the biggest reason is because I find it so easy to confide in you. You’ve never judged me for what I’ve told you, and you’ve never told anyone either. You keep all my secrets the way I know my friends wouldn’t. I also love your personality. It’s the complete fucking opposite from mine. You’re sweet and everyone doesn’t hate you, and I’m rude and people despise me. But we’re both assholes, and we both know it, and yet, we stick together. We feed off of each other. I bring out the worst in you, you bring out the best in me. We’re quick to forgive each other. You make me weak.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. But not, like, physically weak. More like emotionally weak. And I love it.”

“How come?”

“Because anyone can make me feel physically weak. But only you can make me feel emotionally weak.”

I blush. “Oh.”

“And I like the way you wrinkle your nose when you smile. And the sound of your laugh. I love your laugh. It’s just so… I don’t know how to describe it. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.”

This simple little thing makes a giggle slip through my mouth. He smiles, dragging a finger down my lip. “See? That sound. I love that sound. And your eyes, and your scar, and your hair, and the way the lines on our palms align.” My heart does flips at the knowledge that he remembers that. “I could go on and on. I’ve never felt the way I feel about you with anyone else before. It’s insane. But in all honesty, that stuff is superficial. I love you without reason.”

I smile softly, feeling a new urge to cry, but this time at his touching words. I knew he loved me. I was just being silly. My voice cracks when I say, “Oh, Eric. I love you without reason too.”

Eric brushes a kiss to my forehead, and I fall asleep floating on clouds with his steady heartbeat lulling me into dreamland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "First sight, yeah, we love without reason..."  
> -Dancing With Our Hands Tied


	29. Butters Stotch

**Junior year.**

The first thing I feel when I wake up is the warm assurance that I’m safe. Eric’s arms are around my waist, his head tucked under my chin. He’s always the last to wake up. If he could, he would sleep all day. And I can’t keep sitting here until he decides to wake up either. I need to pee. Badly. Slowly, I extract myself from him and crawl out of the fort.

I step out of the bathroom after pissing, and I go back into the fort. Eric’s still sound asleep. I go through Instagram in the meantime. As I’m going through my feed, his arm returns to my waist, and his lips kiss my face.

“Mornin’,” I whisper.

Eyes still closed, he mumbles something I can’t make out. His head drops back to his pillow. I giggle, running a hand through his hair sticking straight up. That’s another thing I like about waking up next to Eric. He’s got a routine where he kisses me half asleep in the mornings. His lips are soft too and his hair’s messy and when he talks his voice is raspy. But he’s also got real bad morning breath.

“Fuck mornings,” Eric grumbles. He squints up at me. “You doing okay?”

At first, I don’t get what he means. But then it comes back to me. Bebe’s party. Me going down to the kitchen. Kenny drunk. Kenny complimenting me and badmouthing Eric. Kenny kissing me. My lips tingle at the memory, and I immediately force it down and away, imagining erasing the moment from my mind.

“I’m swell,” I say, maybe too abruptly. Especially when Eric gives me the side eye.

“Okaaay,” he says slowly, much more awake now. He sits up, slumping into me. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

“Brush your teeth first,” I remind him.

“Fuck you,” he tiredly chuckles as he leaves the fort.

I change while he’s gone. I don’t know when, but one day either last year or two years ago, I left clothes over at Eric’s, so if I’m ever over, I have things to wear. And Eric started leaving some of his clothes at my house. Sometimes, I’ll take one of his shirts and wear it to bed, but he doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to know that.

I dunno why I have a favorite T-shirt, or why I leave it at Eric’s. It’s a yellow shirt, but it’s soft and comfy and the yellow isn’t blinding, but it’s kinda a soft yellow. I also like how it says “Runaway” on the back of the collar in light blue. And along with it being my favorite shirt, it’s my favorite shirt to pair with the windbreaker Eric got me.

He comes back into the room with his toothbrush in his mouth and toothpaste foam on his chin. He watches me hop into my jeans. Around his toothbrush, he says, “Black looks weird on you. You were made for pale colors.”

I laugh. “Thank you for the feedback.”

“Anytime.”

He leaves and returns and gets dressed. He sticks his hands in the pockets of the black “No Romance” hoodie Stan got him for his birthday a few years back. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he stops, his brows pressing together. He takes his right hand from the pocket, pulling out a chain. “The fuck is this?”

I get up from the bed to inspect the chain. At the end of it is an ancient Roman-looking coin pendant. It’s no larger than the size of a quarter. With a sudden familiarity, I say, “Oh. My mom got it as a gift for me for my birthday last year. I musta forgot I left it in your pocket.”

He lifts it to his face, observing it the way I did. “It’s kinda gay.” I watch him put the necklace over his head. It thumps onto his chest. “It’s mine now.”

I smile. “Okay, Eric.”

I go into the bathroom to brush my own teeth. As I stare at myself in the mirror with my toothbrush working through my mouth, I wonder if Kenny likes boys. He kissed me. He said he _cares_ about me. Surely, that means something. It couldn't've been all the alcohol talking. But maybe it was. Hopefully it was. It would make things so much simpler if it was the alcohol talking.

As we make our way downstairs, Eric tucks the necklace under his hoodie. He says, “We should bring all our friends to Summerton so they can see the irreversible vandalism you did on the playground last month.”

I snatch his hat off his head. “Don’t call it that!”

He stops on the last step and turns, trying to get back his hat. I hold it behind my back, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest so I can’t get downstairs. We stare at each other, on the brink of laughter, before I dart past him and into the living room. He chases after me, taking back his hat and situating it on his head.

In the kitchen, I sit at the dining table. Eric goes through the fridge. “What do you want for breakfast?” he asks.

“French toast!” I exclaim.

“French toast it is.” He starts gathering the ingredients.

“You make really good French toast.”

“Thanks.”

I’m on my third helping of French toast when Eric’s parents come down. Liane looks around the kitchen. “We’re missing Clyde,” she says.

Eric beside me says, “I think he stayed over at Bebe’s last night to help her clean up the mess afterwards.”

Liane puts a hand over her heart. “How sweet of him.” She takes a plate and piles it with French toast.

“Where did Bebe’s parents even go this weekend?” Roger asks.

Eric shrugs. “I think they were just staying out really late.”

“Interesting,” Roger says.

After we finish breakfast, Eric and I leave the house and get in his car. He’d texted everyone while we were eating to meet at Summerton at around noon. It’s half past noon now, but I don’t think Eric cares. He doesn’t usually drive with the windows down, but the weather outside’s nice. I stick my face out, feeling the wind on my face and in my hair.

To get to Summerton, you have to drive through this canopy of trees. When we do, a few leaves have fallen onto the street. As a green leaf starts fluttering down, I hold my hand out and end up catching it. Surprised, I bring my arm back into the car and say to Eric, “I caught it!”

He laughs at my enthusiasm, making me smile.

I twirl the leaf's stem in my hand, facing forward. The stoplight flickers red, and I shout, "Eric!"

He turns away from me, slamming the breaks, and we jolt forward. I glance at him with wide eyes. He mirrors my expression. Then we burst into laughter.

We park on the curb to Summerton. Our friends are all here. I can already tell they’re awestruck as I get out of the car. Clyde and Bebe are bouncing up and down on the seesaw. Token and Nichole are steering the wheels to the part of the playground I painted to look like a rocketship.

On the sand, Tweek says to me, “It did not look like this the last time I was here in middle school.”

Craig tosses a Snickers bar to me, and I fumble to catch it. I send him a confused look as I follow Eric over to Stan and Kyle and Wendy and Heidi. He just shrugs at me as I put it in my pocket.

“Are you wearing a necklace, Cartman?” Stan asks.

Eric lifts the chain with his thumb. “Yeah. It’s his.” He jerks his head at me.

Stan nods, sending a smirk my way. I glance at the cross necklace hanging from his neck.

“That’s so cute,” Heidi coos. Kyle’s chin is resting on top of her head, his hands moving up and down on her hips, almost like he's tryna subtly feel her up. There's a reason we make jokes about the two of them. “But aside from that, Butters, you did a really good job redoing this place! I had no idea you had such a talent in painting.”

I smile at her.

Someone claps me on the back and I turn to see Kenny grinning at me. “So you decided to use Summerton as your canvas? I like it.”

I feel myself beginning to warm, but a flash of what happened last night comes back to me and I wonder if he remembers. Then I see Henrietta on the swing set smoking a cigarette.

I look back to Kenny, who’s acting like nothing happened. Eric’s presence behind me suddenly burns like the sun on your back in summertime. I give Kenny a close-lipped smile and say, “Thanks.”

Kenny parts from me and goes over to Henrietta. From the side view I have of his face, I see him smirk at her as he traps her in by holding both of the chains. He drops a kiss to her lips. Though her expression is blank when she blows smoke in his face, I can see how her eyes sparkle as she gazes up at him.

I scold myself for feeling the twang in my chest at watching them kiss.

I leave Eric, feeling the need to get away for a little bit. I walk to the slide, where Annie and Jimmy are sat at the bottom. Annie compliments me on my painting. I thank her as well. I’m about to sit on the bench, but Henrietta waves me over. Hesitantly, I go over to her since I don’t really wanna see Henrietta angry, not that I ever have. But I’d rather keep it that way. I pointedly try not to look at Kenny sitting on the swing next to her.

She sweeps a hand to the playground. “You did all this by yourself?” she asks.

I nod, unsure if I’m able to form words. Kenny in his orange parka hovers in my peripheral vision. I can feel his eyes on my face, but I study Henrietta’s instead. She’s pretty. All of the girls in our school are. Henrietta’s got a perfect nose with that piercing that looks like one a bull might have, and full lips painted purple. Her black hair leaks down her shoulders like ink. Even her eyes are a dark brown. She may as well be the queen of darkness.

The corner of her lips quirk up slightly in what could be described as a grin, but it’s really her eyes that smile at me. “That’s pretty goth. Vandalizing a playground where a family was murdered all on your own. Even though you used to be a douchey little vamp kid, you’re pretty cool now.”

I open my mouth to tell her it’s not vandalizing, but then it hits me that she thinks I’m cool. As far as I know, the only other people Henrietta considers cool is Kenny, Tweek, and her other goth friends. So I snap my mouth shut and stutter, “G-gee, th-thanks, Henrietta.”

She pokes at the small beehive her hair is done up into with a black painted fingernail. She says, “I’m going to the bathroom.” She gets up from the swing and walks away.

Against everything in me, I glance at Kenny. He’s staring longingly after her. “You love her a lot, huh?” I blurt.

His eyes find me, and I regret opening my mouth as I’m stunned into a rigid stance. “I do.” He leans his head against the chain of the swing, his hair falling into his eyes. Me brushing his hair away the time he gave me the idea to paint the playground hits me right in the chest. My fingers twitch at the memory, but I shove them into my pockets before they can betray me the way my mouth did.

The way it continues to do.

I realize I’m saying, “Do you remember anything from last night?”

Kenny squints into the distance, narrowing his eyes into violet slits. “Nope. The last thing I remember after coming into the house and having one too many shots of vodka is singing some song. I don’t even remember what the song was. Just that I was singing it.”

I silently scold myself for the quick jab I feel right where my heart is.

He doesn’t remember. That’s a good thing. We can go back to being best friends. Nothing’s gotta be awkward between us. Eric and Henrietta never have to find out he kissed me. They don’t got no reason to be mad. I can forget too. I can forget him badmouthing Eric and the way his lips felt on mine.

This is God giving me a second chance.

So why does my mouth taste sour?

“Why?” Kenny says, looking at me. “Don’t tell me I did something embarrassing.”

I laugh, unable to conceal the nervousness in my voice. Even _I_ notice how my eyes dart away from him and to the sand. The lie comes easily. “Oh, no. You were just swayin’ a lot and speakin’ in riddles.”

Kenny lets out a breath of relief. “Thank God. Aside from this terrible hangover of mine, at least I’m able to keep some of my dignity."

Kenny’s dirty Converse are pink. Ever since middle school, our friend group has never bought a new color of Converse when we outgrow a pair. His jeans are ripped at the knees. They’re faded and frayed, coming off in light blue threads. Kenny doesn’t gotta go to the store and buy ripped and faded jeans. His just become like that over time. Under his coat, he’s wearing a black T-shirt with a green M on the front of it. M for Mysterion. Ever since he and Henrietta started hanging out, he’s been wearing a lot more black shirts. But unlike me, he can pull off the color. Around his neck, I notice the white shark tooth hanging from the black cord. The ones we both earned back in Hawaii for my hapanoa. He still wears it. I’ve never noticed that before. My own shark tooth burns where it touches my skin, identical to his.

When I finally make it back up to his eyes, with a start, I see that his are already on me. I feel my face heat up, and I turn away before he can see my blush and shortness of breath. I hurry away to the bathroom, feeling familiar tears sting at my eyes. This can’t be happening. I’m just confused over the whole thing last night.

I bump into Henrietta coming out of the bathroom on accident. I mutter an apology to her, keeping my head down as I push open the door to the men’s room. I even repainted the inside of the bathrooms. Before, they were dirty and brown and gross. Now they glow with vibrant color. But it’s all dull gray to me as I turn on the faucet and splash water onto my overheating face. I let the tears come down, camouflaging them with droplets of water. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my elbows on the sides of the sink, my fingers deep in my hair. I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm myself down. When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Eric standing behind me with a worried expression on his face in the mirror.

I whip around, facing him. I dry my face with my sleeve.

“Are you okay, B-Butts?” he asks quietly.

I nod jerkily. “F-fine.” My eyes start to feel heavy, like a bucket about to overflow. I blink rapidly.

My answer doesn’t satisfy him. I can tell as his face grows in worry. He steps forward slowly, as if approaching a rabid animal. “Are you sure?” he whispers.

I quickly wipe away a stray tear. I nod. “Mm-hm.” My attempt at a smile is watery and fake.

His arms are around me. Familiar and safe and warm. The only arms I’ve ever known. Arms that’ve held me for almost four years. Arms that’ll continue to hold me. I sniffle, burying my face in the crook of his neck, the smell of his skin rolling over me in calming waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " 'Cause there we are again on that little town street  
> You almost ran the red 'cause you were looking over at me  
> Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well..."  
> -All Too Well


	30. Eric Cartman

**Summer.**

I still can’t vote. I’m only seventeen, as of today. I feel like I should be eighteen though, considering the fact that in three months Butters will be. I sit on the floor in the living room, in front of the cake lit with seventeen candles as my parents and friends sing me happy birthday. I facepalm at Clyde and Kenny fucking milly rocking as they sing to me. At the final “Happy birthday to youuuu” Tweek jumps onto Craig’s back and says, “Now blow out the fucking candles before the house burns down, man.”

I shake my head at my stupid friends, unable to wipe the dopey grin off my face as I blow out the candles.

“Damn, just like you d-do with Butters,” Jimmy says.

I pick up the knife I’m supposed to use to cut the cake with and point it at Jimmy. “Try me, bitch. I dare you.”

They laugh, and as they do, I use the knife for its intended purpose. Stan flicks on the lights. I cut the biggest slice for me, then evenly cut two inch slices for everyone else. Butters helps me pass out the slices.

Mom and Dad are leaning against the stairs, talking quietly to each other. I hold out two plates of cake to them. “Want some?” I ask.

Mom smiles and shakes her head. “No thank you, sweetie. Your dad and I actually have to leave soon, so we have to get going.” She and Dad are going to go to Providence, Rhode Island for vacation. At first they were planning on canceling their trip because they wanted to spend the entire day with me, but I told them that a couple hours with them and friends was fine. I didn’t want to have a big thing anyway. I put the plates on the coffee table.

Mom and Dad kiss mine and Clyde’s heads and say their farewells. “And, boys,” Dad says to me and Clyde, “behave please. We’ll be gone for a week, and we don’t want to come home knowing what kind of mess you can make in a week without adult supervision. We trust you enough to leave you alone for that long, so don’t ruin it.”

Then he and Mom flash us one last smile, they grab their carry-ons on the couch, and leave.

“I wouldn’t trust you,” Kyle mutters. When I glare at him, he adds, “Just saying.”

I retort, “And I wouldn’t trust you to be a week alone with Heidi without adult supervision.”

Kyle opens his mouth, freckled face red, but Stan steps between us, looking fed up. “Seriously, dudes. Stop. Can we _please_ have one of Cartman’s or Kyle’s birthdays without your old bickering?”

Kyle and I share a shrug. “Sure,” I say. I stick out my hand and he shakes it.

“Aww,” Kenny says. “You really _are_ all grown up and responsible, Cartman.”

I roll my eyes.

Clyde leans his arm on my shoulder and I push him off, but he continues grinning. “He really is, isn’t he? It probably has to do with all the time he spends with Butters.”

Butters walks up to me carrying Mr. Kitty. He hands her off to me, kissing me on the bridge of my nose, where that little bump is. “Probably,” he agrees.

I can’t take my eyes off him as he pulls away. He’s got this little smile on his face that makes my heart do pathetic happy flips. When I realize everyone’s watching and smirking at the exchange, I glare at the floor as I sit back down, silently cursing myself for being unable to control the heat flooding into my cheeks. Mr. Kitty purrs as she nuzzles into my arms. I leave her on my lap to shovel cake into my mouth in hopes of cooling my blush.

Butters sits next to me on the floor, blue frosting at the corner of his mouth. I wanna kiss him so bad. I don’t realize I’m glaring at him until he says, “What?”

“I wanna hold your stupid fucking hand,” I snap.

He smiles brightly, showing off his straight white teeth. He had to wear his Invisalign for only a year since his teeth weren’t that crooked. I had to have it for a couple years. Sometimes we’d be making out and stuff and realize we still had our Invisalign in, and it was this weird thing where we had to take it out and there were strings of spit and we had to put it in our cases and then go back to kissing.

He takes my hand, his fingers sliding into the spaces between mine.

“Thank you,” I clip.

My friends stay over for a couple more hours. We play video games and board games and sit on our phones sending each other memes. At four, they leave. Clyde even goes, since he’s going to hang out with Those Guys at Token’s house, then he has a date with Bebe. Butters is the only one who stays, and he isn’t grounded, so better for us both.

It’s only late afternoon, and Butters and I are back on our bullshit huddled up on the couch watching dumb reality TV. I forbade him from watching the stupid fucking Kardashians back in eighth grade, because that show is pure shit. The only shows we ever do watch are  _Big Brother_ and _Catfish._ They’re okay. Not as good as telenovelas, but whatever. We stuff ourselves with the leftover cake. I can only have three slices before my tastebuds buzz with so much sugar overload that I'm ninety-nine percent sure I can’t taste anything anymore.

The light from the dying sun makes Butters golden, his blue eyes glowing. He catches me staring and leans over to press his lips to mine. I put my arms around him, pulling him into me. He lands in my lap, his tongue flicking against mine. Butters’ tongue is always hot and impatient when mine dominates his mouth. I can taste traces of sugary frosting on the tip of his tongue.

I leave his mouth—with a gasp of breath from him—to trail kisses from the corner of his lips, to his cheek, to his neck. He sighs when I start biting his ear. He starts to rub up against my thigh heatedly. God, I love it when he does this shit. I smirk at his growing boner. He’s so easily aroused. To fuck with him, I push back, earning a moan from him. My dick twitches and sweat starts to bead on my forehead.

I pant into his neck, making him mewl and tug at my shirt. I kiss his mouth hard enough that our teeth click at the contact as I pick him up and start up the stairs. He wraps his legs around me, sucking on my neck. The hickeys that I know are going to form tomorrow are going to be annoyingly dark against my skin.

We stumble into my room. When I push the door closed, it doesn’t even shut, but I’m too set on throwing Butters onto the bed and taking off his shorts to care. Our hands are a tangled mess as he helps me lose his clothes.

Shit like this always makes my vision tunnel, seeking out Butters and only Butters. He spreads his legs eagerly, and I take his thighs to bring him closer to me. Then we’re moving to the same beat, me continuing to bite his ear, his teeth on my neck. His necklace that I made mine thumps against my chest. I stopped being gentle back when I found out he likes it rough.

That day was a wild ride.

I take one of his hands at my neck and hold it above his head, our fingers laced together. His palm is clammy. And his face. God, his face. It’s speckled red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. His lips are parted and breathing heavy, pouty and shiny with saliva. His eyes are droopy and foggy, staring up at me like I’m a god sent down to touch him and make him feel like he’s wading on waves of gold. This view is my favorite thing about fucking him senseless.

My name passes through his lips in a breathless sigh, and it makes an uncontrollable sob bubble up from my throat. I bury my face in his neck. “I love you, B-Butts. I love you so much,” I say.

He touches my aching chest, fingers over my heart. “I—love you too.” His breath hitches and he arches and he squeezes my hand still in his, nails digging into my skin. He cums with a moan, and I do too, collapsing on top of him, drained of all energy.

We lay together, kissing softly and panting and hot from the air and the circumstance. I kiss his face softly. He croaks, “My knees are weak.”

I laugh, moving my hand up from his chest to his neck. I mumble, “ _Arms are heavy, there’s vomit on his sweater already._ ”

“Huh?”

I chuckle, kissing the underside of his jaw. “We need to shower,” I say.

“You take me,” he says.

So roll off him and carry him bridal style into the bathroom, putting him on his feet in the shower. He doesn’t let go of my wrist, pulling me in with him. I turn on the water, jumping when a sheet of ice hits us. Butters laughs, huddling up to me as the water warms up. I can feel the goosebumps on his arms.

With shampoo suds in our hair, I corner him against the wall of the shower, kissing him gently. All of the burning red passion has died from our veins, leaving only the warmth of little acts of affection.

He beams up at me, nose wrinkled, lip between his teeth. His thumbs caress my arms. Water runs down his face, still blushing red. I kiss his nose, hugging him to me. He massages his fingers through my hair, washing out the suds.

“You deserve the whole world,” I murmur.

“I already have it,” he says.

My face twists in confusion as I pull back to see his face. He just smiles and continues, “I have you, don’t I?”

My chest aches again. I smile at him—those dumb squiggly lovestruck smiles in cartoons—brushing my nose against his. “Shut the fuck up, B-Butts.”

We finish showering, washing off sweat and other body fluids. We put on fresh clothes, then fit for laying next to each other under the covers of my bed, our hands intertwined. Butters’ head is on my chest. It’s only eight at night.

I stroke his hair. He sighs deeply, his eyes closed and an imprint of a smile on his lips. “You know, B-Butts,” I whisper to him, “when I get rich one day, I’ll buy us a mansion on the hills overlooking the city. We’ll have a pool, and an elevator, and a butler and personal cook. We won’t need anything except each other. And maybe KFC.”

His eyes crack open, shining in the moonlight. “Really?” he whispers back.

“Yup.” I kiss his forehead.

“Then that’s a future I’ll be lookin’ forward to.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe, my throat constricting. I can see the reflection of the stars in his pale blue eyes. He blinks slowly at me, still smiling softly. My fingers flit over his cheek. He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

He’s sound asleep by the time I reply to his peaceful face, “You’re the future I’ll be looking forward to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Touching him was like  
> Realizing all you ever wanted was right there in front of you..."  
> -Red


	31. Eric Cartman

**Senior year.**

Butters has his back to me, talking to Scott Malkinson and Dougie. I walk up to them, trying to keep my footsteps quiet. School’s just ended, and since mine and Butters' last periods are on the opposite side of the school, we meet in the middle, where his locker is. Dougie is the first to take notice of me, his eyes flying to me as I creep up behind Butters. I put a finger to my lips, silently telling him to keep quiet. He looks back to Butters, who’s complaining about Mrs. Wilson and her disorganization.

I cut him off midsentence by scooping him up in my arms. He lets out a squeak, hands gripping my hoodie. “Eric!” he exclaims.

I smirk at him, turning around and walking back the way I came.

Over my shoulder, he shouts, “Byeee, Scott! Byeee, Dougie!” I feel the movement of his arm as he waves to them.

“Why were you talking to Scott Malkinson?” I ask him.

He faces at me. “I like Scott.”

I give him a skeptical look. “How _much_ do you like him?”

His face screams,  _Really?_ “ _Eriiic,_ ” he scolds.

I shrug, smirking down at him. “It’s a valid question.”

“He’s been my friend since elementary,” he says.

“Aside from that time you beat him up,” I add.

He purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “We do not speak of that time.”

I shoulder open the doors that lead out of the school. The buses are already gone. I remember the days when I couldn’t legally drive and I’d have to take the bus. It was cool, because Butters and I would sometimes get seats in the back and kiss in secret and stuff. But now I have a car and I can’t just lean over and kiss him while driving.

“Where are we goin’?” he asks. He puts his head in the crook of my neck. His fingertips brush the arm of my glasses. I have five pairs—three with old prescription—and lately, this one has been my favorite.

“I was thinking David’s parents’ restaurant and get some Mexican.”

He pouts. “Eric, you know it’s pronounced ‘dah-veed.’ ” He twists the chain of the Roman coin necklace around his finger. I have it hanging from my neck, not tucked into my shirt like I usually have it.

“But do I care? Hmm?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

He sighs. At Mom’s car, I put him back on his feet. He gets into the passenger seat, I get into the driver’s seat. I back out of the spot as Butters turns on the radio. Usually in the mornings, my friends and I have a carpool plan, where Clyde or I drive and go pick up Butters and Kenny. Stan carpools with Wendy and Kyle and Heidi. But since Clyde often drives home with Bebe, I can usually just leave school with Butters because Kenny’s also frolicking with Henrietta, or when it’s his days at Tweek Bros, he carpools with Tweek and Craig.

Since Clyde’s my brother, we go to taco places a whole fucking lot. When it’s late at night and we haven’t eaten, Dad runs out and gets Taco Bell. When Mom’s feeling creative, she makes tacos. When we’re feeling like going out to eat, we go to Nueva Familia, and on a _really_ good day, Casa Bonita. Clyde’s good friends with Davíd, but I can’t say the same.

At Nueva Familia, Butters and I grab a table by the window. A waitress comes by and gives us waters, asking if we have any other drink preferences. I get a Sprite, Butters gets a Dr Pepper. When Davíd comes by to take our order, he glares at me, but says, “Are you ready to order?”

I tell him what Butters and I want. I already know by heart that he likes beef soft tacos from the times we’ve been to Casa Bonita together.

He jots it down. “Okay.” He walks away, and I hear him mutter, “ _Cabrón_.”

I fire back, “ _Soy un cliente aquí, idiota. ¡Ten cuidado con lo que dices!_ ”

He turns around, pointing his pen at me, and says, “ _¡_ _Tú no va a salir de aquí sin pagar como la última vez!_ ”

I roll my eyes. Jesus, that was sophomore year. _Before_ I got a job. “ _En realidad tengo dinero esta vez. Cálmate,_ ” I assure him.

He huffs, spinning on his heel and going into the kitchen.

I take a sip of my water. Butters looks at me like I’ve grown a third head. “What the heck did you two just say?”

“We insulted each other, I told him I would pay, now he’s going to get our order in,” I say.

“You’re real good at Spanish,” he says.

“Mhm.”

Perks of watching goddamn telenovelas all the time and taking three years of Spanish. Now I’m on my fourth as an AP elective.

Our food arrives, and I decide to forget Davíd’s salty greeting and tell him, “ _Gracias._ ”

“ _De nada. Dile a Clyde que el sábado nuestro especial del día será compre uno y llévese dos gratis,_ ” he says.

I nod. “ _Seguro._ ”

When he walks away, Butters says, “I understood Clyde.”

I laugh, taking a bite of my sopapilla. “Can you text Clyde that Davíd says there will be a get one get two taco day on Saturday?” I ask him.

He takes out his phone and texts Clyde. “Is _that_ what Davíd said?”

“Yep.”

We finish eating, and I pay like I promised Davíd. We get back into the car and drive to my house. Being a senior is awesome, I learned last month in August. I don’t have homework, aside from Pre-calculus homework, but my teacher lets us finish it in class. And if I ever do bring home a few problems I couldn’t finish in class, I can always have Butters help me, considering the fact that he’s already in Calculus with Kyle, Token, and Craig.

I collapse on the couch, kicking off my slides. I pick up the remote and find my recording of the most recent telenovela I’ve been watching. I prop my head up with my hand. I glance at Butters taking off his Converse. With both shoes off, he smiles at me and brushes my hair out of my face. Then he drops to my chest, knocking me onto my back with his arms wrapped around me. I kiss the top of his head, refocusing on the TV.

When Mom comes through the door, I realize Butters is asleep, my fingers are playing through his hair, Mr. Kitty is curled up at my feet, and it’s dark outside.

“Aww, how cute,” Mom says. “Hang on, don’t move. I have to send this to your Aunt Lisa.”

“Mom!” I hiss. Normally, I would shout, but I don’t want to wake up Butters.

My protest is futile. She still takes out her phone and takes a picture. “Oh, Eric. I forgot to tell you, but I got an email that your baby pictures for your yearbook are needed soon,” she says.

“Okay. Your point is?”

“If you don’t tell me which ones you like the best from the photo album I have, I’ll choose the pictures myself, and you can’t stop me,” she says.

I frown. “Yeah. I don’t really need those baby butt pictures in my senior yearbook.”

She chuckles, going upstairs. “Let me go get them.”

As she looks for the photo albums, Butters stirs on my chest. His nose nuzzles into me, and his eyes crack open. “You’re up,” I say. “And just in time too, because my leg’s asleep.”

He laughs, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “It’s dark outside,” he says.

“Yep.” I prop myself up with my elbows, moving my feet to the floor as Butters sits up on the couch.

Mom comes down the stairs with two photo albums. “Oh, Butters! You’re awake just in time. Eric and I are going to choose his baby pictures for the yearbook.”

I groan and Butters beams. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your baby pictures, Eric,” he says.

“There’s a reason,” I mutter.

Mom sits in the armchair, putting the albums on the coffee table so all of us can see it. She opens the first one up to the first page, me as a newborn, all red and squealing. “Ugh,” I grunt.

“Aww.” Butters snuggles up to me.

We continue through, Mom taking out the pictures she wants to be put into the yearbook. As pictures progress, I start to grow from a baby to a chubby toddler. Butters and Mom alike coo at the pictures, and I’m left sitting back against the couch with red cheeks and my arms crossed defiantly.

Finally, they get to the last page. “Oh! This is third grade!” Butters says.

Intrigued, I peer over his shoulder to see third grade me sitting on my bed at the old house, looking pissed off. Jesus, I was really fat back then. No wonder I always got shit for it. I mean, I still am fat, but just not as much as before. I have glasses on in the picture—my first pair, before the cornea transplant. Behind my glasses, both my eyes are brown. The picture makes my already red cheeks turn even redder.

“Hey, Eric, how come your eyes are brown here? And in the older pictures?” Butters asks.

I say, “Kenny died. I used his eyes for a cornea transplant. The next time he died and came back, my eyes changed the next morning. And I could remember his deaths. I’ve told you this before, but you never believe me.”

He sighs, kissing my cheek. “And I still don’t believe you, but either way, I love your eyes no matter the color or vision.”

I snort. “Okay, B-Butts.”

Mom spreads out the pictures she chose and I approved onto the table. There’s me crawling on the floor towards my mom. There’s me during my first birthday. There’s me in preschool. The other photo album is a continuation from where the other left off in third grade.

Mom gasps as she points to the picture of the baseball team in fourth grade. “Butters, don’t you remember this?” she asks.

“Yeah. It was pretty boring,” he says.

I press a kiss to his temple. “Very boring. I remember how no matter what we did, we couldn’t lose. It sucked.”

He smiles his Butters smile with his nose still scrunched and his lips high. “I like this. Lookin’ back at past the with you,” he says.

My heart feels heavy at his words. I grab his face and pepper him in kisses. He laughs, attempting to kiss me back. I whisper, “And maybe one day, you’ll be my future.”

His eyes grow wide as they stare into mine. He’s holding his breath. His fingers curl around mine. At first, I internally panic, thinking my words were maybe too forward. But when he smiles softly and presses a lingering kiss to my mouth, I realize I haven’t scared him away. I melt into the kiss, deepening it. It doesn’t even occur to me that my mom’s sitting on the armchair watching us. And how can I when all I've ever wanted is right here in front of me, kissing me like I’m all he's ever wanted, right here in front of him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Photo album on the counter, your cheeks were turning red  
> You used to be a little kid with glasses in a twin-sized bed  
> And your mother's telling stories about you on a tee ball team  
> You tell me 'bout your past, thinking your future was me..."  
> -All Too Well


End file.
